


Chaos Theory

by relevant_elephant



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Erik being... Erik, F/M, Hank and Charles still being angry, M/M, Raven being confused, Romance, attempts at humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4342802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relevant_elephant/pseuds/relevant_elephant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A butterfly flapped its wings two weeks ago, when a scruffy stranger showed up at his door. That set off a tornado of change that no one - not even his future, now defunct self - could have imagined.</p><p>Or, Charles' personal history was changed. Why would anyone assume that would mean that he would remain the same?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Butterfly

It was a difficult decision to make, not reopening the school. He'd almost forged ahead when he remembered the three names Logan gave him, but then figured he could check in on them from time to time. After all, things were different now. Whoever that man was in the future, the one who'd been able to forgive Erik? This Charles, the one right here and now, was not that man. They'd altered their future through the past and in the process, altered their personal trajectories.

Charles was uncertain how long it had been in the original timeline that Erik had escaped the Pentagon, but he was certain that Erik had never tried to kill Raven or betrayed him quite so thoroughly. He was probably even sober and as back to his old self as he could be again. But with Logan's interference, things that had not happened the first time around did happen the second.

With Logan gone, never to return (or so it would seem), Charles assumed that they had successfully prevented the apocalyptic future that had required such drastic action. But they'd changed Charles' course, too. Perhaps it was because he'd still been broken, just barely on the mend, when the Peace Accords happened, when D.C. happened, that Charles did not regain the equanimity from before... everything. His heart had taken too many hits in that short time, compounding pain upon pain; friends attempting murder on friends, sisters once again walking away without so much as a glance. He didn't want to take any more.

Possibly that made him lesser than his original self. Charles preferred to think it made him less submissive and pathetic, less liable to be manipulated by those who would toss him aside when they'd done with him. He didn't care. He wasn't a saint. He'd never claimed to be one.

It wasn't the future Logan had hinted at. It wasn't the future his older self had been hoping for. But it was for the best. And maybe, without all those children underfoot, he could do something greater, make better strides for tolerance and peace. A small part of himself, quickly subdued, snorted derisively.

He did not have time for a school in any case. He was relearning how to survive in a wheelchair. He was relearning how to survive with constant, throbbing shooting pains in his lower back and numbness in his legs. He was relearning how to live without reliance on addictive substances (Hank had gladly – and with a surprising amount of vengeance – tossed every single alcoholic beverage the mansion held). And he was doing it all while trying to learn how to be a father to two-year-old twins.

A butterfly flapped its wings two weeks ago, when a scruffy stranger showed up at his door. That set off a tornado of change that no one - not even his future, now defunct, self - could have imagined.


	2. Revelations

Granted, with the door gaping wide and giving the multitude of secret government organizations currently monitoring the mansion better access to what was inside (if not enough for what they wanted), Hank could concede that it wasn't exactly the best time for a psychotic break, if there ever was such a time. Maybe he'd ask Charles, the foremost expert on the subject within these walls, when the best time would be. He was going to need a bit of help, so his experiments didn't suffer.

This sort of surprise was just not righteous. He was afraid that his heart would give out at any time, with the slew of surprises he'd suffered. He vaguely wondered if there were any studies done on the connection between an unexpected heart attack by psychotic break. If not, he'd pioneer one – if he survived. He wasn't that old, just 32, but anyone with a sound brain in their skull would acknowledge that everything that had happened in the past weeks would give even the healthiest of minds and hearts a scare.

It had been a mere week since that woman, Janie Pasternack, had seen fit to drop twin toddlers in Charles' lap. Hank hazily recalled her from one of Charles' alcohol-infused nights of debauchery. Janie'd seen them on TV, the D.C. debacle, and had deduced that Charles was now sober enough to take over their care, full time, especially since he was apparently more equipped to 'deal with their freakishness'.

Charles had insisted this was not a school, not any longer, and that mutant babies were not to be dropped off. Hank had to excuse Charles' inability to make the obvious connection that she was implying they were his on account of his… readjustments. So they'd run tests. The DNA matched. And Janie had gone on her merry way.

It would have been heartbreaking if it hadn't been so obvious the twins weren't that concerned about their mother's absence. They were far too enthralled with Charles' hippie hair to even notice her leaving. Charles seemed a little less than thrilled.

Thinking about it, Hank deduced that it was because the woman had just been waiting to dump the children. He supposed she could be given enough credit for being conscientious enough not to just leave them in state care. But Charles' dour glare told Hank that the other man did not agree.

And he wondered, if it had taken Logan to break Charles out of his depression early, then did that mean the other Janie never dropped off the original Charles' kids? Did original Charles even know he'd had children?

“Uh, hey, man? Did you have a minor stroke or something?”

Hank jerked out of his mental spiral and blinked at the man before him. He blinked again. There was only one way to ascertain psychotic break from reality. He hauled back his fist and let one fly straight at Sean's face. Since he'd stopped taking the serum (for TJ's sake – he didn't… want another Raven), the hit was quite the battering ram.

The hallucination was launched back a few feet and then did a funny kind of operatic villain death-fall - Hank was sure there were slow motion effects in there - before it hit the ground with force enough to deflate entirely. And any moment now, the vision would disappear in a puff of smoke. Aaaaaaany moment now.

The ghost (he was now sure it was a ghost, pale and wan, haggard and aged as the face was) coughed and hacked. It rolled to its front and groaned, one hand grasping its back and the other rubbing its jaw.

“Aw, man, Hank. I know I've been gone with no contact for three and a half years, but is that any way to greet a friend? No, wait. That is **not** how you greet a long lost friend! What the actual fuck?”

It was said sedately, like Sean was asking about the weather, the force of the words a mismatch to the calm of the face, the relaxed nature of the body as it slowly, smoothly raised itself to its feet.. He could have been aloof, apathetic, and Hank would have thought so if he hadn't known the other man was just slugged in the face. No one could be calm after that.

Hank shook his hand out, absentmindedly, and started to speak, a retort on his tongue. But he didn't really know what to say. His mouth hung open, his atrociously large canines glinting in the weak autumn sunlight.Then, with a snap that echoed round the entry hall, his mouth slammed shut.

His hand throbbed and the apparition was still there. He wasn't crazy, then, and he couldn't be seeing ghosts (and for a scientist, that should have been the first theory discarded). Ghosts can't take a punch.

Sean (how could it really be Sean?) gingerly walked back up to the doors. His eyes, Hank noticed, were sharper, like a predator's, and there were lines on his face that spoke of stress and worry. He looked old, like Hank and Charles looked old. When all was said and done, he was not how Hank would have envisioned Sean, if he'd allowed thought of Sean at all, after.

“Sean?”

The confusion that had set in after the cautious hope was quickly banished with the appearance of the carefree smile that Hank knew and loved, spreading as widely across Sean's face as his arms did for a hug. Words strangled in Hank's throat, endearments and gratitudes and imprecations clamoring for release, but only coming out as a breathy gurgle. He launched himself with a carelessness that was foreign to him, eager to feel the solid, real thereness of a deeply missed companion.

Sean's laughter, deeper and huskier for the years he's grown, filled Hank's ears and the foyer of the mansion. Warmth that had banked long ago came back to life within him with a vengeance. His own laughter blended with Sean's, but just as quickly turned into sobs. The tears were ripped out of Hank's body, one by one, like his entire existence was being plucked apart, every seam that held him together viciously yanked out. There was nothing but ragged edges left in its wake. But any scientist worth his salt knew that the secret to healing was to cleanse the wound.

Sean's confused voice, gentler now, said, “Hey, hey, big blue. What's wrong? It's all right.”

Hank tried to answer. He really tried. But his breath was wrenched from him and his head was spinning. He couldn't breathe, let alone speak. He needn't have worried. A distinct British voice, calm and nearly as serene as it once was, fell with words like a harsh lash from the second level.

“We thought you were dead, Sean.”

The man in Hank's arms went rigid and his hands stopped soothing on Hank's back. Instead, they gripped tightly into the scruff, pulling tightly enough to sting before releasing just as swiftly, Sean gently disentangling himself from Hank and stepping back. His face was still calm, stance still lax. But there was a tightness around his eyes.

Silence fell like a spell over the room, filled only with the sound of Hank's heavy, agitated breathing. Sean was still emanating calm, damn him. Where was the highstrung, cocky boy of before?

“Wh-”

Hank flinched as the sound cracked into the air with the force of Sean's power behind it, but watched, confusion once again settling in, as a brief flare of panic flashed in Sean's eyes. It was gone just as quickly as Sean cut off the word and he cleared his throat. His hands ran through his boyishly curly hair, the only familiar thing left of the boy Hank once knew, it seemed.

“What do you mean, you thought I was dead? I sent you a coded letter after I escaped.”

Hank sniffed and wiped his nose as he regained his composure, slower than Sean had, but then, years trapped in a mausoleum, with the living dead and the ghosts of long lost loved ones, was less conducive to developing such a skill than war was, he'd wager.But Sean’s answer nearly wrecked his facade of calm again and his eyes whipped to Charles.

The same look of pained astonishment that Hank suspected was on his own face was being reflected back a thousandfold, the words just another in a long line of devastating blows to Charles. Hank diverted his attention back to Sean, as much to give Charles a little bit of needed privacy as to ferret out this new secret. But as he was about to speak, Charles, again, got there first.

“We need tea.”

The smooth, hydraulic sound of Charles' wheels faded slowly as he went down the hall to the elevator, not even sending a glance back.

“I would have thought whiskey would be the order of this surprising and distressing day,” Sean deadpanned. Hank snorted as he started toward the kitchen, capturing Sean's shoulders in a sideways tug as he went.

“We don't drink alcohol in this establishment any longer.”

A finger poked Hank's shoulder and he turned to see Sean's slightly wrinkled brow, showing a distant curiosity that would be offensive if Hank hadn't known, instinctively, that it was merely the smooth reflection of a very deep pool. “Why not?”

Hank's face wilted and he murmured, “It's a long story, to which we will get to after you tell us yours.”

As the young men traipsed into the kitchen in a type of comfortable silence Hank hadn't been a part of in nearly half a decade, Hank cast out to Charles. _Will the young Misses Xavier be joining us?_

_Not as yet. They're napping._

Hank 'hmmed' as he ushered Sean into a seat and headed for the electric kettle. The stout, silver thing was promptly filled and set, so it was no time at all that Hank had teacups out and saucers filled with biscuits and jam and butter. Sean's favorites, once upon a time. He hoped they still were. The pot of clotted cream came out of the refrigerator next.

It was quiet in the kitchen, as Sean looked around in a detached sort of wonder, perhaps the same surreal feeling filling him that Hank'd had upon first seeing Sean again. But even if Sean had been loud, as he had been long, long ago, Hank's advanced hearing would have picked up the faint whirring of Charles' chair approaching. It would be a good two minutes before he arrived and Hank distracted himself by formulating ways to convince Charles to allow him to supe the chair up.

_I am not a Formula 1 racer, Hank. Leave it be. I don't want death by speeding wheelchair on my grave marker._

“Something funny?”

Hank ducked into the cupboard to retrieve the tea as his chuckles slowly tapered off.

“Nah. Just some idle thoughts tartly dismissed by a gravely unadventurous man.”

He set the tea leaves onto the counter, next to the tea cups he’d already placed, and then loped to the kitchen table, arranging the tea things within arm’s reach of Charles side and cast subtle, examining glances at Sean every few minutes.

His friend was disconcerting now, calm and dangerous in a way he'd never been, and it broke something inside of Hank. They'd all changed, with time, with betrayal, with loss and violence, all been tempered into facsimiles of themselves, into little ghosts that resembled nothing of what their bright, young selves had thought they'd be.

Hank was the lucky one, of them all. One lost, fledgling love and a little self-consciousness due to a regrettably Brother's Grimm-like problem couldn't compareto the loss of an intense, possibly sexual, definitely passionate friendship, a sister, the use of one's legs and the former two over again, or to the loss of an exuberant innocence and whatever terrors a soldier is forced to see. Even still, of them all, out of all that, Sean had yet to emote in any truly meaningful way.

The boy, and he’d always be that boy to Hank (he wouldn't suffer it any other way), sat comfortably but severely in his chair, arms crossed and legs aligned. Sean’s face sat in repose, any thoughts he might be thinking concealed behind the veil of army-ingrained maturity. Hank’s fur rustled with a light shiver. Whatever could do that to a man?

“Mmm, chamomile,” Charles announced appreciatively as he finally glided into the room. He came to an abrupt stop next to Sean's chair and then just stared, eyes hollowed and mouth tense. “Hello, Sean."

Sean's smile, stern as the rest of him, barely faltered as he took in the state of his mentor. But his eyes darted to Hank, questions clamoring for answers even as a slight accusation seeped in, and Hank winced. He fiddled his cumbersome paws over the tea kettle, still bubbling happily away. The contrast was glaring and wholly unwelcome. And he was entirely aware of all his faults, thank you, Sean.

The other man must have turned back to Charles because the heat Hank felt upon himself lessened and he murmured his own ‘hello’ before he threw all his body weight at the professor, clinging tightly. It was a startling show of emotion that grabbed Hank's attention, worried as he was that Sean couldn't show such anymore, and something tight within Hank started to unwind.

Charles' eyes reddened as he buried his face in the riot of strawberry blonde hair and held on tightly. The hug lasted a few minutes more before Charles cleared his throat and pushed Sean gently back. The tea kettle whistled.

“Oh!”

Hank startled out of his chair, nearly tripping straight into the table. He caught himself with his reflexes (admittedly, this body had way more going for it than his more human one, if not in the looks department) and pushed off, beelining for the stove. His clumsiness seemed to settle a sense of normality over the kitchen, if for a brief, blessed spell, and it was like 1964 all over again.

The tea was served as usual, with Hank playing mother (an absurd term, but who is he to mock an entire culture?), doctoring the beverage to each person's liking. When that was done, and cups rested comfortingly in hands, Sean asked, “What happened to the school? Rusted gates, askew sign, overgrown ivy. It looks like something out of Lovecraft. Or Hitchcock. I was half-inspired to walk around to the back to see if I could find any crumbling foundations or bird carcasses. Or maybe ghosts. Ghosts would've been good.”

Sean's voice was even, zen as he would have once said, inflection giving nothing away. Charles and Hank shared a look, and then Charles commented, “Your story first, Sean. Please.”

Sean looked down to pick inaudibly at his cup, worn fingers tapping and twisting a staccato tattoo, the only outward sign that he was not as calm as he appeared. Then he nodded once, noiseless still, and stared into the tea. The clock over the kitchen sink ticked relentlessly. Hank could swear it was getting louder with each passing second.

A sigh finally slid from Sean. “I swear you were supposed to know I wasn't dead. Professor, you would have known.”

Sean's eyes went wide and beseeching, the imploring look directed at Charles there and gone before Sean settled comfortably back into his detached state. His fingers, though, still danced agitatedly, transferring to and tapping the table almost hyper actively. Charles reached out and settled his own hand atop them, gently calming the restlessness and squeezing affectionately.

“I fear that I didn't feel you anywhere, Sean. I looked. Believe me, I looked for weeks. Months. I didn't stop until I collapsed from exhaustion and hunger and grief.”

Sean's shock, like his distress on Charles' behalf, slipped deftly through his mask in a brief blink and twitch of his lips. It was enough. Hank studied the dips and crags made deeper by the motion, indelible marks that should never be engraved into a 28-year-old's face. Even in repose, they were in stark relief. Sean’s hands gripped Charles' tight.

“I don't understand.”

Charles placed his other hand atop the stack and rubbed comfortingly, the way he had on his babies’ backs, when his daughters had fallen asleep in his own bed that first night; like he had with them all at the beginning, when they were still children in a strange, cruel world. It relaxed Sean as much now as it did then. The tense line of his shoulders drooped ever so slightly.

“Just start from the beginning and go from there. And Sean.”

Charles stressed the importance of what he was about to say by letting the sentence hang there, staring seriously into Sean’s eyes. Charles smiled lightly, after a moment, and Hank's heart skipped a beat. It was the most 1962 Charles had been in over a decade.

“We don't blame you for this. We mourned you, yes, but you're back now. This is not your fault.”

Sean nodded once, swiftly, and pulled a hand out of the pile to press at his eyes, rub his temple. “Yeah. Well. I'd been transferred to a special unit in Vietnam. Something about logistics, they said, finding water sources, the best places to navigate a mountain, etc. With my Master's in Geology, I was aces for it. They gave us medical evals and that was the last I knew of 'Nam. I woke up, groggy and disoriented, in a lab of some kind.”

Charles’ knuckles gripped white on Sean's hand. Sean winced, but didn't say anything, and Hank nodded in approval. Good man.

“I saw and conversed with other mutants and I came to the conclusion that someone must have been 'recruiting' out of the military.”

Hank nodded and murmured, “Trask.”

Sean nodded. “It could have gone horribly from there, but they'd captured Emma Frost.” Charles and Hank stiffened. Sean shrugged in acknowledgment. “Yeah, only she wasn't evil. Not then, anyway. And they hadn't so much captured her as she allowed them to think they had. She got the few of us that were in the lab and nearby containment out.”

Hank blinked. He leaned forward and, as agitated as he was, growled, “We saw the autopsy, Sean. After Charles’ search, the Army came to us, with ‘condolences.’ Charles sensed something from them, a lie but not the actual truth – somehow they were, apparently, hiding it – and I demanded evidence. They humored me. Those photos looked extremely real to me.”

“Yeah, Frost made the lab techs make out our reports, autopsy shots and all, so it would be easier for us to disappear. No one looks for a dead man. But after I went underground, I got a post office box and sent you guys a coded letter inside one of those science journals you like so much. I told you to only use the address for emergencies until it was safe. Color me surprised when you didn't give me a heads up about D.C.”

Charles looked shamefaced and his head drooped. His hands disentangled from Sean's and he started to roll out the door. “Erik was right about this, too, damn him,” he muttered.

Sean made an aborted move toward Charles, his hand outstretched and mouth open to object. Hank clamped tightly to his shoulder and, when Sean looked at him, a hard look in his eyes, Hank shook his head sternly.

Expelling a deep breath, Sean collapsed back into his seat and mouthed, _what's going on?_ Hank waited for the sound of Charles' chair to fade from his ears, and then the distant sound of a door slamming shut, before he turned to Sean and gave him all the gritty details.

* * *

 Dinner was a quiet, strained affair. Sean kept sending looks of vague concern Charles' way every time the other man looked down to eat, completely forgetting that every emotion he was feeling for this situation and their mentor was stabbing excruciatingly into Charles’ mind. Compassion, for all that Charles had a wealth of it for everyone else, always felt uncomfortably like pity when it came to himself.

Hank sighed. Mealtime had become the hub of information exchange since the girls had arrived - indeed, since Logan had come and gone - and had been, if not quite exuberant occasions, then at least cheery. But tonight, Charles largely ignored those at the table, stewing on angrily spewed words, courtesy of Erik. Again.

The only evidence that Charles was still aware of reality, if only peripherally, was when he fed himself and the twins. The twins themselves were eerily quiescent, continuing their disturbing trend of adopting Charles’ moods. It forced an unpleasant thought into Hank’s head, but he pushed it away, trying but ultimately failing, not to wonder what more was in store for the residents of this haunted place. He barely nibbled at the tasteless food in front of him.

“Sean.”

Hank startled so dramatically that the table screeched a little across the floor and spilled Sean's juice across his dinner plate. The other man eyed his puddle of food, and then Hank, and said impassively, “I was done eating, anyway.”

Feeling as if his face was on fire, Hank cleared his throat and murmured, “Terribly sorry.”

A faint tickling of amusement flared into surprising life in the back of his mind, warm and cozy. Hank glanced up, and his entire body unclenched. Charles was smiling, the wispy lines of the effort letting Hank know that things were… going to be OK.

“ **I'm** sorry, Hank.” _For more than just startling you. Like a baby bird._

Hank's fangs glinted as his own smile burst from deep within and he thought, _don’t even start._ Charles hadn’t teased him about Hank’s resemblance to baby birds since before the serum. Things were going to better than OK.

Sean broke the moment with an even, “Can we please stop with the creepy telepathic byplay? Or at least include me, so I can feel creepy smiles, too?”

A rusty chuckle fell from Charles' lips, broken and gravelly, but there. Hank glared. Sean blinked. Hank would say he did it innocently, but he not only knew Sean better than that, the man was also, so far as Hank has been able to observe, unnervingly straight-laced these days.

“Man, seriously, it was a 'my, what big teeth you have' moment. Live it, love it, deal with it.”

Hank's eye twitched before he took a calming breath, fingers gripped tightly about his fork, which bent in the middle. Chagrined, he set the utensil down gingerly and breathed deeply as he turned toward Sean. Voice as arch as his eyebrow, Hank spat, “I'm sorry. Did I intimate that I was _glad_ to see you alive?”

Sean's damnable face twitched in an aborted smirk as he turned to Charles. “Still a touchy subject after all these years?”

“I know he told you about the time after the school. He wears this face for TJ. He'll get over it. He just needs time.” Charles snorted. “And maybe a few more jokes like that, if you please.”

Drink finished, Hank mumbled, “Utterly atrocious, Charles. Utterly. Atrocious.”

“Yeah, yeah, Babe. We hear the smile. You can't fool us.”

“I am hardly as big as the aforementioned ox, Sean.”

Sean chuckled. “Well, I've seen a real ox. You're bigger.”

Hank sighed and turned to Charles, abandoning that conversation to the pits of hell, where it belonged. “I believe we've gotten off track a bit.”

Charles, eyes sparkling and mouth wearing a hint of hilarity that hadn't been there in years, nodded. His long hair fell into his eyes and as he turned to Sean, the younger man noted, “You look like a beatnik. What's up with that?”

“I will not dignify that with a comment.”

“Too late, just did.”

Charles leveled an exasperated look at Sean, at the unrepentant stare he cast in return, and huffed, displacing the hair in question.

“And I thought we were a grown man with degrees and life experiences by now, hmm?”

The stare adopted a teasing air, without so much as changing, and Hank was quite unsure how.

“That does not mean we cannot give into our inner adolescent now, does it?”

Charles pursed his lips, taming the smile that wanted to take over his face. It still managed to beam from his eyes, though, and Hank decided he could kiss Sean. Banshee was one of Charles' biggest regrets, the failure that finally broke him. So it made sense that Sean would be the one that could make him finally smile again. Would that Hank could have done so these past years. A tinge of melancholia punched Hank in the heart.

Charles sent a look Hank's way, and a _later, we'll talk_ , before he sobered.

“Sean, I checked all the journals sent to the manor during the time period you were missing. There was nothing like what you described in any of them. You are certain you didn't put it in a separate letter and it just fell out?”

Sean seemed to deflate without moving a muscle on his face. His entire body, tense with military discipline as it always seemed to be these days, just… wilted, caved into itself like a balloon in a vacuum. He slumped back into his chair and gripped his legs to his chest. It was the smallest Hank had seen him since shortly after Cuba.

“No, I remember clear as day. It was an old one, about two months. I was certain you would have already had a copy, so to discourage either of you from tossing it, I wrote, 'top hat for the win!' in the white address box, with a number. It was sent June 4th.”

Hank sat back slowly as Charles nodded and busied himself with cleaning the girls.

“I assume the number was the page the cipher was on,” he stated calmly, fingers firm but gentle as they wiped mashed vegetable off Luna's chin.

“On the nose. You're sure you didn't get it?”

Charles raised a brow and tossed Sean a slightly condescending look. The other man actually still had the grace to blush as Charles followed it up with, “Has it been that long, that you have forgotten my eidetic memory?”

Sean stuffed some waterlogged mush into his mouth and mumbled around the mouthful, “Maybe a little, tiny bit.”

Hank allowed the humor to swirl about the room for a while before he leaned in, elbows digging into the hard wood of the table, and declared, “That can mean only two things. But if we take into account who and what all of us are, and the turmoil that usually draws, we can eliminate the completely innocent 'it just got lost' and go straight to--”

“Someone stole it,” Sean finished. He rested his chin on his knees, eyes hard as he turned from Charles, to Hank, and then focused on TJ and Luna who still sat eerily mute in their highchairs. “But who? And why? They knew how to contact me, how to lure me out. Why not go for it?”

Charles rolled back from the table and gestured at his daughters. Hank nodded and stood, then he unhooked the trays and the safety belts, lifted the girls from their seats, and placed them delicately onto Charles' lap. The two immediately latched onto Charles, snuggling deeply into his chest and clinging tightly to his shirt. Their free hands tangled together, making a heartbreaking family portrait that Hank knew he'd never forget.

“Meet me in the study, if you please.”

Sean nodded along with Hank and then turned to clear the table. Hank joined. As Charles maneuvered his chair out of the room and down the hall, Sean looked up at Hank and muttered, “What's wrong with the girls? They're kind of…”

“Weird?”

Sean half-shrugged in chagrin and looked Hank's way before he whispered, “I was going to say creepy, but weird will work. I mean, babies aren't supposed to be soundless like that, are they?”

Hank shook his head. “They're just… getting used to the surroundings, I suppose. They've only been here a week, as you know. Not only that, but I’ve hypothesized that they’re strangely in tune with Charles and have adapted his gloomy demeanor. I don't know if it's because of a regular father-child connection – anyone could tell they loved him on the spot and he them – or if it might have something to do with any mutations we are unaware of – which is my guess. But it's there, and it happened, and now they just… stay quiet. It hurts Charles that he did that to them, so I just wanted to thank you for the laughs. Maybe now we'll get some from the girls, too. Well, more, anyway. Charles has managed some lighthearted moments and the girls always seem happy in his presence.”

Sean's face flushed and he nodded. “Yeah, whatever, man. I'm just glad to be home.”

The men worked in silent tandem as they methodically cleaned the dinner mess up and, when the dishes were settled in the dishwasher (a marvel Hank would never get tired of, no matter that it had been installed in the manor in '64), the two walked to the study in companionable peace.

As they entered, Hank felt the millionth smile of that day, a record for him over these past years, spread across his cheeks. TJ, her little blue pointed tail lashing about, was wiggling under the sofa, her six toes dug into the lush rug to give her leverage, probably searching up a lost toy. Luna was sitting behind and watching her, or - Hank noticed with amusement - the very enticing tail dancing about her head. It was the most animated they’d been since being installed in the manor.

Just as Luna was about to lunge for the temptation, Charles tsked. Luna looked back at him, pout in full force. Charles just shook his head, pointed to a pile of blocks, and went back to the papers strewn about his desk, assured in his daughter's compliance. Sean chuckled as Luna finally lumbered dejectedly toward the blocks, her eyes casting dire sadness at her father the entire way. When Charles refused to so much as acknowledge the unfair pain he'd cast upon her, Luna plopped down with a huff. The blocks banged shortly thereafter. Loudly.

“She sure knows how to show her disappointment.”

“Is that relief I hear, Sean?”

Charles infused such knowing into his tone that Sean once again flushed. “I'm sorry, but babies shouldn't be so well behaved. I couldn't stop thinking of the Addams.”

“Ha, ha. Now, sit, boys.”

Hank took his usual seat, now that the study was once again a place of work instead of the den of a reclusive, alcoholic bear, on the left side of the desk, diagonally facing Charles, but still with a view out over the garden. Sean took the seat on the right, facing the newest and littlest members of the Xavier line.

A smile flitted across Charles' face briefly, before a stern look overtook it. “Ever since we got back from D.C., Hank, I've been doing some research. It hit me entirely wrong that a telepath as talented and powerful as Frost, and with a second mutation that makes her quite nearly invincible, could have been taken by Trask with such little fuss.”

Hank gazed out of the window, squinting, and clicked his tongue. “You're right. There would have been a scuffle and we would have heard about it. The dead bodies, at least, would have made the news.”

Charles nodded. “Exactly. So I started looking. I couldn't really find anything, so I gave up, thinking I was paranoid or doing it out of guilt or some rot. But with Sean's story, I think we're going to have to kick this search into gear.”

Sean looked up from where he'd been poking TJ's belly, his finger stilled in surprise or maybe confusion. Hank couldn't really tell, not any more. Post-war Sean was disturbingly hard to read at most times. As the girl tried to engage Sean's hand again, he asked, “Why does it matter?”

“I couldn't find you anywhere, Sean. I looked. Now, unless you were sporting that godawful helmet that Erik favors, there is only one reason why your mind would have been out of my reach.”

Hank rested an ankle on his knee and jigged it, anxiety leaking from every twitch. He swallowed, swallowed again. An extremely foul taste flooded his mouth at the insinuation. Charles poured a glass of water from the pitcher at his side and handed it over.

“Thank you.” As Hank swigged the water down, Sean sat back into his chair, TJ now settled safely into his side.

“So… she's a problem now? But she saved me.”

Charles steepled his fingers against his mouth, eyes distant. The clock in the corner ticked away and Luna continued to bang her blocks, though she'd chosen to do so at Hank's feet. As Charles continued to order his ideas, Hank swooped down and picked Luna up, settling the girl in the spot left between his crossed legs.

“I didn't know this woman well, or at all, and just barely scratched the surface when I entered her mind so long ago. Truth to tell, I wasn't overly concerned with her as a person at that time. But what I did get is quite telling. Emma Frost is not altruistic. She certainly did not follow Erik out of any similar beliefs. She wanted out of CIA containment. And she wanted power. Erik was the way to get both. She certainly doesn't care about our kind in any way other than how they can benefit her.”

Hank watched shrewdly as Sean nodded. “Makes sense. She did want to blow up the world. And anybody with half a brain would know that most, if not all, mutants would have died from that blast, too.”

Charles snorted in acknowledgment. “You said she voluntarily got captured. I'm guessing she had a reason.”

Hank chimed in as the thoughts coalesced. “And that reason was that she needed mutants who were grateful to her, felt indebted to her. Or even that she needed a certain mutant who was in the facility at that time and couldn't look heartless.”

Charles sat back in his chair and added, “Or both. She wanted me to think Sean was dead, presumably to groom him for something safely away from my knowledge of it.”

“But she didn't groom me. I didn't have any contact with her whatsoever after I said a begrudging ‘thank you’ and ran off. I didn't even know where I was heading until I got there, four days later.”

“Well, that just means that whatever she's planning, she's playing the long game. Perhaps she was waiting for you to get into trouble again. Then, when any hope you’d had was gone, she would finally swoop in like the white knight.”

“Endearing herself to me and earning my gratitude and possible alliance.”

Like nothing had before, except – perhaps – the revelation that they’d thought him dead, this thought finally elicited a strong emotion in Sean. His face registered such perturbation that it helped Hank to relax, guiltily. He'd been beginning to think the army had beaten anything other than light emotion and vague interest right out of Sean.

“But _why?_ Why would it matter to a telepath like her that I _like_ her? How could that possibly benefit any plans of world domination?”

“She's powerful, make no mistake. But even after a decade, I don't think she can control more than one mind at a time. If she could, I don't think you'd be here. You and, most likely, the other mutants she's saved don't need to like her for the mission itself. You just need to like her enough to complete the mission. Subtle difference, but it’s there.”

Sean shivered violently and Hank couldn't blame him. Living with and loving a person like Charles tends to make one forget that there are other telepaths out there who would not hesitate to use someone for their own ends; and had the potential to quite literally do it.

“Sean, I want you to try and think of all the mutants you left that facility with. See if you can remember if you happened to get any names, either from them or from glimpsing the forged records. I would like to check on them, see if Frost has contacted any of them. Don't feel rushed, but please, try and get me a list by tomorrow. If you need any help, you know who to ask.”

“Yeah, of course, professor.”

Charles' smile was fond, nostalgic. Softly he noted, “You are no longer my student, Sean. You haven't been since you started your college courses. You've grown into a wonderful man, both under my tutelage and from your time spent in the military and on your own. I can tell.” He tapped his temple. “I would be honored if you finally called me Charles.”

If Hank asked Sean about it later, he knew that Sean would vehemently deny the tears that filled his eyes. It wasn't that Charles had insisted they call him by an honorific. He hadn't. But Hank knew the power of hearing those words spoken in such a manner, like it was them doing a grand favor for Charles, instead of Charles granting the honor of equals upon them.

Turning his eyes away in deference to the moment, Hank focused on Luna, right in time for her to thrust her 'B' block into his mouth. Hank grimaced at the baby slobber soaking the wood, even as he gnawed on it and growled and grunted, making appropriate monster faces to accompany this new game. Luna squealed delightedly.

Charles' eyes went wide and Hank jerked in a breath, nearly making the block his next meal. Sean grinned. “Hey! She's got my lungs!”

Spitting the block into a hand, Hank cast a disdainful look at the man. “I don't even want to know how you would explain that happenstance.”

He turned to Charles and bared his teeth, gloating. “Perhaps we should now contemplate the possibility, Charles, that your children may not only have manifested – at least slightly – at the youngest age we've ever seen, but that they have some sort of telepathic or empathic ability. Hmm?”

He turned and pointed at TJ, now bouncing giddily on Sean's lap and making extremely happy nonsense noises. “They've each rather cheered up a bit, quite in tune with you.”

Charles cast a long-suffering look at Sean, but the other man wisely decided to stay out of the argument. Miffed, Charles turned to Hank.

“Yes, all right. You were right. They've most likely manifested. And fine. You can do a couple of _non-invasive_ tests, with me or Sean present so that one or the other of the girls doesn't wander off while your back is turned. But that's it!”

Hank settled back with Luna in his arms, self-satisfaction pouring from him in waves.

Charles harrumphed and murmured, “More like smugness, just because your hypothesis was – for once – the correct one over mine. Be off with you boys! And leave my babies.”

The pair chuckled – well, Hank did while Sean smirked - as they settled the girls back onto the rug, next to the blocks. The extra-soggy one Hank placed on the desk to be washed later. As Charles wheeled around the desk to settle in next to his girls, Sean and Hank wandered out of the room.

Loudly, with a teasing glance cast over his shoulder, Sean commented, “Still a sore loser?”

“Quite.”

“Oh, good! Not too much has changed then!”

As that set them off in laughter, Charles' voice floated through their minds. _I know where you live._


	3. Demons I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that in this chapter, and in the work tags, I have changed Cindy/Psionics to Luna. This is because Cindy, upon further investigation, was only a character in the Fantastic Four comics, even if she'd been listed as related to Magneto. Luna, on the other hand, has appeared in the X-Men comics, and thus has replaced Cindy. 
> 
> Now, you're probably asking yourselves why this matters. It is because I wanted X-Men characters that were related to either Charles or Erik as their kids, and Charles only has David Haller - and I wanted girls. Thus, Luna and TJ and not Erik's daughters, as pretty much everyone who does a kid!fic uses Wanda and Lorna. 
> 
> I'm also aware that Luna was only infected by the Mists to become powered and that she was half Inhuman and half mutant, which made her human. I'm forgoing the half and half thing, obviously. And I'm also uncertain if I want her to remain powerless or be a mutant. So if anyone has any suggestions that they'd like to see with Luna, please leave them in your comments, with an explanation as to why you think this should be so.
> 
> I've also edited chapter 2, Revelations, as I realized I introduced an aspect of Sean that was not very well elucidated in the story. I also fixed the plot hole of how Charles and Hank saw Sean's autopsy photos when the movie only showed them in Trask's office. Those of you who have already read it don't need to again, as there is no new information, but I think it's well worth it. It would also be helpful to know what you guys think of my characterizations of Hank and Charles - if they're speech seems correct, if how they narrate their sections and the words they tend to use seem authentic - and especially of Sean, who had no development in the second film because they so callously killed him. Do you think it's decent for a war vet and potential science experiment?
> 
> Also, I’m thinking of giving Charles a secondary mutation that is not his well-known telekinesis. It won’t deviate far from his telepathy, really. In fact, it’s an ability that could even conceivably be an extension of it. It will, of course, play a role in the story if I do give it to him. What do you guys think? And no, you don't get to know what the power would be. That would spoil the surprise.
> 
> I also apologize for the beginning of this chapter. It's a little choppy and unwieldy. I'll hopefully be editing it soon, but not now. I wanted to get the chapter out as it's been so long (I got a new job that I've been trying to acclimatize to). I also apologize if there are spelling/grammar issues and possibly things that don't make sense. I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning, after work. I was tired. 
> 
> Thank you.

* * *

Charles watched his daughters bang about with the Lincoln Logs, more using them as drumsticks than for any actual building, and a small smile crossed his face. He had to admit he'd been shocked to the core when he found out he had children. Shocked and delighted, unexpectedly. Children had never been in his plans, at least not biological ones, and so young at that, that would rely on him for so much.

It was even more surprising that he'd given life to such an extraordinary looking child. He'd always wondered about Raven's birth parents and, to a much smaller degree, that Azazel fellow's. He should have known they most likely looked like the more dominate human form than not. Not that TJ wasn't absolutely striking. A smiled flitted briefly across Charles' face. She more resembled Raven, if a bit more feline, down to the lovely amber eyes and roughly ridged skin. But even so, Charles could still see himself in her face every time he looked (even if those golden eyes of hers were an oft painful reminder of the other girl he'd loved and lost). Luna, though, looked nothing like her fraternal twin and was much more obviously his progeny, if perhaps a touch more feminine. Her hair was a shade or two lighter than his own, leaning toward copper, whereas TJ's was a dark ink spill. Her skin was just as fair as his, prone to freckling, and her eyes just as blue. Her nose, like TJ's, was delicate and turned slightly up at the tip, a happenstance Charles was immensely grateful for. They did not need to have their father's beak. If Janie had done one thing right, it was passing on that button nose.

He'd never have dreamed up anything as precious as these two girls. They lifted his soul out of its pit of despair better than even his future self could have done. With their joy and rowdiness, something that had been absent from this house for far too long, they slowly and methodically sealed over the cracks and fissures on his heart. If only Raven could see them. TJ would delight in her almost look-a-like, if her reaction to Hank was anything to judge by.

And it weighed on him, of course, that one or both of his children had such a connection to him that his moods could bring sway their own, but it was a selfish relief. He’d had such connections once and, unfair as it was to Hank and Sean and Alex (mostly Hank, admittedly) – whom he loved dearly – it was nice to have those connections again.

“Da! Lookit!”

The paltry thing sitting so ill-fittingly on Charles' face bloomed at that word. Da. There was a terror that struck deep into Charles' heart at that ( _he was a father_ and _I messed it up with Raven, oh god)_ , but the pleasure that filled him was nearly overwhelming enough for him to ignore it. The girls had started it nearly their first day here, when they'd deigned to make any noise at all. But now, they said it nearly constantly.

Loathe to admit it as he was, Charles had to acknowledge that Hank probably had the right of it. His daughters – or maybe just the one – had manifested. And what they, or she, had was no doubt something close to telepathy. It would be fascinating, this early of a manifestation, if it wasn't his own children involved. Powerful things tend to become powerful temptations for powerful people.

And as much as he was coming to love his mutation again, he'd not wish it for his girls. Telepathy was a hard power to accept. And it took exceptional people to do so. There were precious few of those in this world, Charles had learned. Two of the few lived in this mansion.

Charles brushed those melancholic thoughts away and focused on the lopsided mess Luna had made with her logs. He made the appropriate awed noises only in time for her to screech, pull her hand back, and swipe it across the building. The pieces flew everywhere and the girls burst out into delighted laughter, TJ clapping and shouting, “Ag'in, ag'in!”

Chuckling lightly, Charles shook his head. He supposed he should scold them, but they seemed so charmed with their act of destruction that he didn't have the heart. A little blue hand struck out like a whip and snatched a few logs to its own pile, set upon building another structure to destroy.

A sadness chose that moment to strike him deeply, nostalgia a powerful – unwanted – force. It took Charles a few breathless seconds to push it back. He'd never seen Raven at this age, so this moment shouldn't even be equivalent to any of those that they'd shared. But beaming little TJ, all blue and amber, pushed Charles’ mind back to a past that, in light of the previous 11 years, seemed to have been a construct of Charles' own imaginings. He could count on one hand the amount of times Raven had that same look on her face.

“Da, Da.”

The words, slow and gentle, brought his attention back to the present, as did TJ's smooth, warm palms clasping each cheek. Her eyes, big and round, stared into his. Her skin was naturally rough and caught on Charles' stubble.

“Da sad?”

Charles allowed a smile onto his face again as he swallowed TJ's tiny waist with both of his arms. He leaned in and breathed in her baby scent, nose pressed to her cheek.

“I'm not sad.”

A second set of hands, slightly cooler and a little less abrasive, settled next to TJ's. Charles pulled back to look at Luna. Her somber little face pricked at Charles' heart. He looked like that when he dared to look into a mirror. It was less frequent these days, but still often enough to be familiar. It shouldn't grace the face of his child. Luna stepped closer, wobbling a bit, and took her place atop his unfeeling leg.

“P'omis?”

Charles moved his arms around both girls, pulling them into a tight hug, and buried his head between the, face buried deeply into their fall of hair.

“I promise.”

The little girls were hushed, only burrowing into Charles' embrace. Before they settled, Charles readjusted them, situating each girl so that they wouldn't cut off his weak circulation. Once they were comfortable, they just sat. Quiet filled the room and enveloped the three in a cozy companionship, though Charles couldn't help but feel that the girls were trying to comfort him. His heart cracked at the same time it filled up with pride. His girls shouldn't have to bear the weight of a broken man's soul. He looked down at their serene faces. But they did so, so well.

It was a comfortable moment, one Charles was reluctant to allow to fade away, but like all little child minds, the matter slipped swiftly by, and the two girls turned their attention away. Charles watched as they tangled hands and stared into each other’s eyes. They looked like they were speaking to each other in the way Charles and Raven had when they were young.

“Oh, my darlings.” Grief seeped into Charles' heart. Telepathy. It had to be. They were _his_ children after all. And it seemed fate was bound and determined to follow the line with a curse.

* * *

“Glurg.”

“Glurg? Charles, a man of your intellect really should have a better response when being awakened.”

Charles let loose a loud groan as he flexed his upper body, arms spreading widely over his head and fingers curling as the pleasing sensations of relaxing muscle flowed throughout his body. As his brain worked its way to cognizance, frantically searching for a suitable repartee, Hank continued.

“One would also think that a man of your intellect would also refrain from falling asleep on a hard wooden floor when in your condition.”

Charles' words tumbled out of his mouth, vying for position against a deep sigh. “I was playing with the girls…”

His eyes popped wide and his brain jerked unpleasantly to life. Charles scanned the mansion frantically. After a few seconds' worth of panic, he finally zeroed in on the two colorful beacons that were his daughters’ minds. They were amused.

“They’re fine. They found Sean and decided to make him their alien leader. Or something. I was too busy trying to make sense of all the data the girls’ DNA had generated to pay much attention to their antics. They are having exquisite fun, though.”

The tension that was thrumming through Charles' every nerve released and he slumped back onto the rug (which _was_ rather thin for a Persian, he thought with a distracted frown), and his body flopped like a masterless marionette. It took a few deep breathes for his heart to calm, though, and when it did, Charles commented wryly, “ _Exquisite_ fun?”

“Sean’s word, not mine,” Hank grumped. When Charles finally looked in the other man’s direction, amusement dancing in his eyes, he met yellow glowering ones and a large blue hand that rattled papers perilously close to his nose. “DNA? Tests? Possible mutant-savants for children? Any bells in the belfry ringing?”

“When did you become such an ass, Hank?” The question was idle, but a good one none the less, Charles was sure.

Hank’s already sour expression curdled even more. “When you became a drunkard mess of a man and I had to play nursemaid.”

Charles winced, mostly good naturedly, with a, “Hurtful.”

“You’re a big boy.”

Charles hauled his upper body up from the floor and dragged the rest back to recline against the brown leather sofa. The coolness of the fabric seeped into his back refreshingly and Charles groaned in pleasure. After he rearranged himself to the best position for comfort, legs pulled back and to the side of his bum and one arm propped on the couch cushions, he turned back to Hank, chuckling.

“Someone’s a bit cranky this afternoon. Did you get shit caked into your fur again?”

Hank’s scowl became fiercer. “You are vile and I loathe you.” A beat, then, “And no. I’ve solved that problem, as I’m sure you know. Sean apparently now hates loud, shrieking sounds-” ( _ironic_ , he muttered under his breath) “-and broke some of my last unused test tubes. I’ll need to wait a few weeks before I can get more from my supplier, which sidelines a few of my projects.”

Charles quickly and discreetly plucked the incident from Hank's mind. He witnessed as Hank knocked a book off the lab table, heard as the sound ricocheted off the multitudes of metal after it slammed to the concrete flooring. He watched as Sean jumped and turned like a whip. His arms swept in a carefully calculated arc, cleanly breaking the beakers, only to grab up a large, jagged piece and tucking it against his forearm, point toward his chest. His eyes were wild, a trapped animal waiting to strike in desperation.

Hank had come close to having his jugular severed, Charles knew, and this thought sobered Charles quite a bit. He could commiserate with Sean’s aversion. Korea had done a number on Charles’ own mind. Worry seeped in and Charles wondered how long it's been since Sean screamed.

“Charles?”

“Yes, continue. What did you find?”

Hank eyed Charles for a moment, thoughts blaring in loud red letters, YOU WILL TELL ME LATER! Wincing at the close proximity intensity, Charles nodded. Satisfaction oozed from Hank’s every pore. He was practically glowing with it. Charles scowled, but Hank only grinned and, once more, rattled the papers obnoxiously in Charles’ face.

“TJ seems to be giving off low level electromagnetic waves, with a few spikes of alpha waves here and there. Nothing compared to yours, but that shouldn’t mean much. She’s still a toddler. Luna doesn’t have any brain activity outside of the norm, though she seems to be… more receptive than most minds. I think that’s in answer to having both a father and a sister with telepathic abilities and must be how she connects with TJ so often.”

Agitation spiked. “She’s susceptible to telepathic minds?”

Startled, Hank glanced up. “Well, no. I don’t believe so. Not any more than any other non-telepath, I’d say. I meant that she doesn’t seem to be exhibiting any telepathic tendencies herself, other than an uncanny ability to… latch on, let’s say, to the telepathic minds of her blood relatives.”

Charles’ tension released and he breathed deeply, centering his mind. Hank continued on, oblivious. “I’m not entirely certain if it’s an aspect of another mutation Luna might have, a mutation in and of itself, or merely a non-mutant human’s reaction to having a telepathic twin; and possibly a telepathic father.”

“Much like the twin ‘telepathy’ phenomenon, a connection that no one else but twins have to each other and mistaken for actual ESP.”

Hank sucked on a fang distractedly, and nodded. “Exactly. Though, I’ve been doing some reading in that area and it’s quite possible that the first twins to spark off that theory in the early 19th century may have actually been telepaths, or at least one of them.”

Face alight with a new scientific discussion, Hank looked up at Charles and started to lean in. Charles pursed his lips and raised his brow, putting as much ‘oh, that’s interesting but not really, what about _my_ babies?’ into the expression. Hank’s face fell.

“You’re never interested in any scientific discussions anymore.”

Laughingly, Charles sputtered, “You know that’s not true! You just have a tendency to sidetrack yourself at the most inopportune time!”

Sheepishly, Hank shrugged, his cheeks turning a slight purplish color as he quickly started to shuffle his papers nervously. “Well, as it happens, that’s all I’ve got to tell, so if you’ve a mind to discuss it, you are very aware of my enthusiasm.”

“This will require tea. And books.”

Hank turned to stare down Charles, eyes alight with his piercing mind, and noted, “I’ll be in my study. You get the tea. And the brownies.”

Chuckling, Charles grabbed the side of his chair and dragged it over to himself. He heaved up and into the seat as Hank wandered out of the room, flat, wet nose buried in the DNA tests once more.

* * *

Sleep was elusive that night, as it ever was. Charles spent each tick of the clock with an arm thrown over his face and thoughts plaguing his mind unceasingly. Now, on top of the regular worries a new dad suffers, there are concerns for TJ's mentality and thoughts of what Frost may be up to (and if Erik might well be involved) and when – or if – Sean will ever be able to use his voice again. He still needed to talk to the younger man about that, but Sean had seemed so content, taking charge of children once more.

As for Erik… Charles growled and slammed his other hand into the mattress. He'd seemed pretty distraught over Frost's death, but then again, he'd known that Charles had no access to his telepathy at that time. And Erik had always been a great actor.

He wished he could say that Erik would never have used Sean in such a manner, but then, he once would not have believed that Erik could attempt murder on Raven. He once would not have believed that Erik could just leave him behind, injured, possibly dying, without a backward thought.

Charles grimaced and balled his hands, welcoming the bite of his jagged, worried fingernails. He didn't want to think of that man. He didn't want to think of how easily Erik could abandon him, how little concern he could show for Charles' injuries and mental state, and yet show such concern for people he'd known hardly longer than he'd known Charles and certainly couldn't have learned to trust in such short acquaintance, especially after their last, explosive meeting above and on Cuba.

It couldn't be avoided, however, this brooding over a man he'd rather forget. _A man I should have let drown_ , a vicious, dark voice whispered. Charles dwelt on that thought longer than the old him would ever have done. A part of his mind flinched when he came to the conclusion that thinking of Erik's death, at Charles' own hands even, didn't make his stomach turn or his heart falter. Indeed, the bigger part of Charles' mind seemed all too keen to show Erik just how powerful Charles could be.

The dreaded anxiety kicked in as Charles' mind traveled these paths he'd rather not follow. Closely on the heels of that emotion came the urge to jiggle his leg, like he'd once done when he'd had the use of them. The desire had never gone away and only gotten stronger when he'd used the serum. It was an itch, one so deep down under the skin that it could never be scratched. All that could be done was to wait it out.

Charles' breath became labored as the anxiety, as the prison of his own body, weighed down on him. Intermittent grunts filled the once quiet of his room as he squeezed his eyes shut, stretched his back to alleviate some of the urge to move. He needed something, he needed to calm. There was no more serum, he knew, but there was still a stash of booze in his mother's old room, no doubt even more finely aged now than it had been when she'd lived. He'd meant to mention it to Hank when he'd gone on that great alcohol purge, but it had truly slipped his mind, especially when the girls had come. Now. Now, he was glad it had. Just a small sip, a tiny one, was all he needed to steel his nerves.

Beads of sweat popped up on Charles' forehead as he heaved himself out of his bed and into his chair. He knew just one sip wouldn't be enough. He was an intelligent man. He knew this. But no manner of intelligence could defeat the ravages of a disease-ridden body. And alcohol addiction was one of the worst, most insidious diseases that existed. He knew, knew this. And it killed him that he couldn't stop the move to his door, couldn't stop himself from turning the knob and rolling out into the hall; couldn't stop the fine tremoring of his hands as every muscle, bone, and blood vessel strained for that blissful substance.

The corridors were dark and quiet, as things tended to be in the early morning. It was so quiet, Charles feared that Sean and Hank could hear the heavy beating of his heart, like a guilty tattoo leading a man to his demise. He even hoped that one of the boys would somehow hear it, hear his strained breathing and breathy grunts, and come out to stop him. Because he couldn't do it himself and he hated himself for it. He was a mess, only half put back together by the time D.C. came about, just to be stripped down again when Raven chose to leave once more, when Erik flew off and Charles realized he couldn't bear to call that man 'friend,' even if Erik could.

Charles' mind was so focused on ferreting out the last bits of liquor in the house that he didn't sense the other mind that was swiftly on an approach until the other man spoke.

“Charles?”

Sluggishly, Charles blinked, his mind coming out of the hazy tunnel vision he'd been so used to even just a month ago. The release was swifter now, but Charles shrunk a little in his chair when a small part of himself regretted that fact. Breathing deeply, he turned his head to see Sean standing down the right side of the bisecting hallway Charles was just passing, the moon that streamed in through the window limning him a ghostly pale.

Belatedly, his words found release.

“Sean. What are you doing down here? Your room's three halls away.”

Sean silently judged Charles with a slow blink, or so Charles' guilty conscience chose to believe. “So's yours.”

An unaccustomed flush infused Charles' cheeks and he was extremely glad the shroud of darkness blanketed not only the halls, but his face as well. He cleared his throat and then shifted his seat, then shifted back the other way.

“Yes, well. Restless minds, I suppose, for the both of us.”

Sean nodded lazily, then cast a deliberate glance down the hall Charles was traversing and back. “Restless minds, restless legs. Sometimes only the calm of a midnight's stroll can tame those beasts.”

Charles smiled uncertainly. There was a disturbing amount of knowing in this young man's gaze that put Charles on edge. Nothing dangerous, of course. He'd scanned for any residual telepathic instructions and there were none to be found. No, it felt like a silent sort of criticism. At one time, Charles would have known just from Sean's face. He could know now, if he went into Sean's head, but a fear stopped him. Sean said it was fine, but Charles didn't want to know if it truly wasn't; didn't want to know if Sean perhaps blamed him for his capture and subsequent three years away from home and family. Charles wondered if he'd ever be that brave, brash man again, capable of seeing criticism of himself without falling apart. He somehow didn't think so.

“We should have tea.”

Charles looked outward, surprised that he'd been so wrapped up in his own mind once more. For such a cerebral man, he certainly lived outside his own often enough. “Tea.”

“Tea.”

Charles narrowed his eyes at Sean. The other man's body, now that Charles was becoming more aware with every second he was distracted from the siren call of oblivion, seemed carefully cultured, painstakingly studied.

“If sleep is what you are seeking, tea is not the way to go. The caffeine will keep you up until morning.”

Sean quirked that damnable eyebrow again and shrugged disingenuously. “What was it you used to always say? 'Tea soothes the hard knocks of tough talks'?”

Charles' own brows rose this time. It seems he's forgotten, with the lackadaisical if stern facade Sean's been sporting, that the young man is not so young anymore. Or innocent. He found himself nodding in compliance to Sean's suggestion and was about to swivel his chair around when Sean took the handles, steadily walking Charles' chair in a tight circle and then proceeding down the hall. Charles smiled lightly. Sean always had loved to push Charles when they walked together. It seems he still favors it to Charles motoring himself about.

The trip down to the kitchen was silent as both men fell deeply into their own conflicted minds. It was soothing, really, if not still a bit apprehensive, having Sean's mind grinding away next to Charles' own. Even if he wasn't privy to the actual thoughts, just the motion of them in Charles' mind was relaxing. A silly thought to have, when Sean had already indicated a tough talk, but Charles always did like the little things.

By the time the two settled into the kitchen, Charles was almost completely sure that any censure he'd felt from Sean was a figment of his imagination. It was the specter that haunted the drunken man, the fear of being caught out when he'd vowed to be sober. His mother had suffered from it, though she'd never promised to be sober. Not to Charles' knowledge at any rate. His own apprehension gave him unpleasant reminders of what he'd felt from her.

Those chilling thoughts were put aside when a steaming cuppa was placed in front of Charles and he once again marveled at his lack of concentration. He'd have to get that fixed if he was going to raise children.

“You're distracted tonight. Or is this a common thing these days?”

Sean was balancing on the back two legs of his chair, rocking back and forth as he blew the steam off his tea. His nonchalance was truly a sight to behold, a calculated deceit designed to set at ease the victim before he struck. Charles wondered if it had been the military or those three years alone that had done that, or if it was just a natural extension of the zen Sean had had years ago, now fit for a man.

A self-deprecating look crossed Charles' face as he noted, “It's pretty common, though getting less so as time and distance increases from certain things.”

“Speaking of, I'll be removing the rum stored in your late mother's rooms after you go to bed.”

It was said so sedately, Charles could swear Sean was talking about the weather. But he suddenly remembered Sean looking down the way Charles had been heading and the idea that he was being judged was suddenly, frightfully at the forefront once again.

“How...” Charles' voice failed him and he had to clear his throat to continue. “How did you know?”

Sean chuckled darkly. “Thanks to 'Nam, and even more so my time underground, I know a man on the edge when I see one, no matter how British they are about it.”

The tone Sean used wasn't… accusatory. It wasn't condemning. There was an understanding in it that Hank could never quite grasp, an acceptance that nearly made Charles cry. He blinked away the fog of tears and took a sip to cover his slip, though his better understanding of this new Sean made it clear to Charles that Sean wouldn't have missed it. But he didn't comment.

“Not to mention that Alex and I found the stash shortly before Cuba and may have indulged a little.”

A startled laugh jerked out of Charles and he snorted up some tea, which only led to more laughter. Sean chuckled slightly, as well, and mumbled an apology for the ill-timed revelation. When the moment had passed, Charles set his tea aside and folded his hands carefully on the table. He looked seriously into Sean's eyes and nodded.

Sean sighed, gulped the last remaining dregs of his tea, and then stood. He placed his cup on the island as he paced by it, then leaned against the ledge, arms folded.

“What's got you falling off the wagon?” There was a hesitation, real this time, before he continued. “It's not… your girls?”

Charles gasped lightly. “No! Never.”

Relief emanated from Sean's mind and he nodded, indicating for Charles to go on. It was a strange reversal of roles, one Charles found himself… not minding much. The world tends to get a little heavy on one's shoulders when there's no one to help with the burden. And Charles has burdened Hank enough.

“Many things, really. TJ is telepathic, Luna is nebulous at the moment. Erik. Raven. You.”

Sean 'hmmed', though his face declined to express any of his thoughts. “Why me?”

The moment of truth had arrived then. And if, at one point in time, Charles would have had deep reservations about dumping his neurosis and somewhat nihilistic mood onto one of his children, it's been made quite clear that Sean was no longer that. He exhaled heavily before he admitted, “Erik and I, we got into a fight. On the plane. He said I'd failed our kind, wallowing in my self-indulgent pain, that I'd given up.”

It wasn't hard to say the words. It was almost too easy, actually, and Charles was concerned at the emotionless tone of his voice, most especially because this is, in part, what drove him to seek out the alcohol.

Sean 'hmmed' again. Then, “Erik's an arrogant asshole. I'd say he doesn't understand suffering if I didn't know his past, but he sure as shit doesn't understand what can happen to the mind when it's stressed to the point of breaking – mostly because he's past the point of no return on that, broke into insanity a long time ago. Long before he met you.”

Charles snorted in amusement. “You sure can tell it like it is now, can't you?”

Sean's eyes stayed serious. He stared hard into Charles'. “You didn't fail me.”

“Sean--”

“The journal was intercepted long before it got here. You had no reason to believe I was alive. You didn't fail me. You didn't fail the kids here. You didn't fail the mutants you don't know.

You're not God, Charles. The onus is not on you to take care of all of us. You're one man. You're just as fallible as the rest of us, just as fragile, just as liable to break when pushed too far. You did what you could to the point where you weren't taking care of yourself, and this after you'd already been broken by those who claimed to love you.

So fuck Erik. Fuck Raven. They're inherently selfish creatures who do what they do for the self-righteous idea that they'll be the leaders of this new mutant world order they want, revered by all. They don't know what it's actually like to work for something because they think they can just take it, like they just take lives. And they know nothing of what you've been through since they left. You didn't fail anyone, Charles. It was Erik and Raven who failed us.”

Sean let that settle into the room for a moment, busying himself with refilling his tea and handing Charles a napkin to wipe his face, like the tears of his mentor were no more remarkable than a cloud in the sky. Once Charles had dried his cheeks and his sniffling had stopped, Sean sat back at the table and leveled that disturbingly adult gaze onto Charles once again.

“So we've cleared Erik, Raven, and me,” Sean noted, ticking each one off on his fingers, “which leaves TJ and Luna.”

“You're distressingly forthright these days. And to the point.”

Sean shrugged. “The Army will do that to a man. I rather like it, other qualms with the military aside.”

Charles tipped his cup. “Here, here.”

They sipped silently at their drinks, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Charles wasn't so sure Sean was right in his tirade, not completely, but only because Charles knows himself. He really does have a masochistic streak, it would seem, because Sean's words made sense and yet. And yet. A part of him, for a while but hopefully not forever, will remain haunted by Erik's words, by Raven's gently accusing face in Cuba and then the inexplicable extreme dislike most recently.

“Luna may or may not be a mutant, though she's capable of latching onto TJ's mind, and possibly mine, which may explain how she's affected by my moods. TJ's a telepath, which does explain how she's affected by my moods.”

“I don't understand the problem.”

Charles huffed and patted Sean's hand. “That's why you were always my favorite.”

Sean snorted. “The only favorites you had were all of us, or none at all.”

Charles let out a sly smile. “Figured that one out, did you?”

Sean arched a brow, then deadpanned, “When I did, I was quite miffed. Miffed, I say.”

“You sound it, I assure you.”

“I've been practicing.” They shared a smile before Sean sobered, once again. “But seriously, though, what's the problem?”

“TJ's a telepath. Do you know how it will hurt her if Luna ever asked TJ to stay out of her mind? If she ever found someone she thought finally completed her – only to have them slam shut her entry to their mind unexpectedly, showing a distrust that she'd never, to her knowledge, cultivated?”

Sean's eyes darkened in understanding.

“I used to believe my ability was just as beautiful as any other mutant's. It's rather hard to think that way now, especially when for the longest time, even I couldn't stand it. It's only the acceptance of you boys that kept my head above the despair.”

Sean's chin wobbled. His voice was similar when he spoke. “That never occurred to me. Erik and Raven always seemed so proud, so intent that we shouldn't hide, that I never once thought that they were so gun shy of telepathy. Raven, especially, is a shock.”

Charles' hands were gripped in Sean's. The firm hold was comforting, as was the compassion coming off Sean's mind.

Charles took a deep, cleansing breath, feeling lighter than he had all night, if not all year. Sean was a breath of fresh air, a new pair of eyes to give new insight on old wounds. Charles hoped Sean would work this magic on Hank. If Charles needed it, then so did he. They certainly couldn't do it for each other. Their misery only fed into a bigger circle of misery, a dark Ouroborous of pain festering between them.

“Thank you, Sean.”

“Hey, so the student surpassed the master, eh?”

“Ha! I wouldn't get cocky, if I were you. You're Sean Cassidy. You're bound to foul up sooner rather than later.”

“Uncool, man. Uncool.”

Charles sniffed loudly and pulled back from Sean and Sean settled back into his chair, happily pulling the pan of brownies Charles had made – and left on the table in disgust - earlier that day toward him.

“In fair warning, that was my first attempt at cooking ever. They taste like old feet.”

Sean froze midway to his mouth with a brownie, eyes slightly alarmed. He looked back at the snack for a few heated moments before shrugging and stuffing the entire thing into his mouth.

Charles grimaced. “I forgot how disgusting you are.” Sean shrugged and shoveled another two pieces into his mouth.

Charles watched, both fondly and repelled, and lighthearted enough to fall to sleep swiftly once his head hit the pillow. But that was not to be. Not yet.

“We've, if not slain, then at least laid to rest, my demons for the time being, Sean. What about yours?”

Sean stilled. Charles wasn't even sure the other man breathed. But that was the only outward sign of Sean's unease. His face, as ever, was less than emotive.

“When was the last time you screamed?”


	4. Demons II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the length of time this took to get out. I am currently living in my car and have had other things to deal with. I hope the extra length makes up for it! Also, I've edited the previous chapters, just to make it flow better. There's extra length, about 2,000 extra words. It doesn't heavily alter the story, but if you wanted to read the new stuff, this is your FYI.  
> And please, please tell me what you think (I told myself I'd never beg for comments, but I need them!). Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> EDIT: I apologize for the typos and the clunkiness of parts of this chapter. I had been over it, but missed a few things and tried to fit things in. I'll be editing when I get the time.
> 
> Also, does anyone know of anyone interested in doing some artwork for this story?

Sean breathed deeply once, twice, then set his brownie back into the pan with precise movements. He'd thought he'd been hiding it well, but he guessed he should have known. Charles was not only Charles, but a telepath. And a war vet himself.

The silence in the kitchen was so loud, so oppressive, it reminded Sean of those nights, deep in Viet Cong territory, when his unit was bunkered down in a boggy trench, helmets pulled low over their eyes as they sat still and soundless. Back in those days, admittedly not very long ago (god, he sounded old), one little noise, like one little glint of light, and he'd have been blown away.

Now, here, in this kitchen that was the haven of his best memories, he felt trapped. He felt small. Tears pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked firmly. His head dipped and his hands curled tight, the white of his knuckles stark against the fading tan of his skin.

He breathed deeply again, measured. Calm. He was anything but calm. He was only ever anything but calm. Always a swirling maelstrom of repressed anger and shivering fear lurking just below the surface of his tranquility.

A soft hand gently squeezed Sean's hands, then chafed them briskly. Warmth flushed through them, surprising him. He hadn't known his hands were that cold. Or was it his soul?

“It's OK to cry, darling.”

The whisper, laden with understanding and love (something he'd had precious little of the past three and more years), broke the hard-won dam walling Sean's emotions inside. He was a young man again -- that boy in the aquarium trying to impress a girl, a banshee in a den full of black-suited wolves, a child-soldier watching his new found family falling swiftly apart on a sun drenched beach.

When the tears came, they came on a tidal wave of vengeance. His shoulders wracked with the force of them, his breath fighting through the torrent. He felt, vaguely, as Charles pulled him half into the wheelchair, leaning Sean's body onto Charles' lifeless legs. And Sean fought, bits of him as ever mindful of his mentor's health. Charles has delicate circulation there now and Sean would not contribute to any difficulties because he couldn't keep it together.

And that was the answer he gave when Charles' eyes questioned him. He gulped and scrubbed at his face self-consciously, breathing roughly through the minutes. Charles left him this time, sitting sedately back in his chair with his hands clasped lightly. Once he'd got a handle on himself, Charles huffed an irritated, “Nonsense.”

Surprised, Sean blinked. “What?”

Charles narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. He stared Sean down like he had whenever Sean made up strange after strange excuse as to why he had not done his homework that day. Or when he interrogated the household whenever his favorite iced dessert disappeared.

“I am not fragile, nor have I ever been, and I do not appreciate it when you boys treat me as such. I am perfectly capable of lending a shoulder or, as the case may be, a lap to lean on. Now no more of that nonsense.”

Wretched as Sean still felt, he couldn't stop chuckling at the familiar (and it was familiar, forgotten though it was through time and circumstance) genteel tirade. He slumped into his chair, the breakdown tearing down his body's acquired inclination to sit ramrod straight, wiped his eyes, and noted through his laughter, “Now you know how Alex, Hank, and I all felt when you kept calling us 'boys' by the time 1969 rolled around.”

Charles sniffed. “I'm fragile. That's my prerogative.”

Sean guffawed, even as he finished wiping his eyes. “Hypocrite.”

“Only when it suits me.”

Sean let the levity of the moment settle comfortingly over the room, even allowed himself to slump, gently, against Charles' side, his head on Charles' shoulder. It was an awkward angle, the kitchen chair not quite the same height as the wheelchair, but it was reassuring all the same. They sat in a companionable silence, something the same as it once was, yet still different about it now that Sean was no longer that young man who's only claim to adulthood was a betrayal none of them saw coming. He felt, now, that he could call this man 'Charles' without feeling like an imposter, like a child playing dress up. 'Pain, it makes equals of us all,' his squad leader used to say.

Sean's heart clenched. He missed that man.

“Sean?”

Breathing deep, Sean unclenched his fist from Charles' pants and sat up.

“I killed them all.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of gunfire rang through the dark of night, as the bombs whistled their merry, deadly tune as they dropped headlessly onto the villages – the people – below. Both sides were at fault for that. Acceptable collateral damage, they said.

“Sean… it was war.”

With eyes squeezed tight against the surge of tears, Sean shook his head, shook it hard enough for his brain to rattle and his teeth to clack. He shook it so hard, maybe the memories would just fly right out of his brain and leave him in peace, damn it!

“Sean!”

Charles gripped Sean's head, trying to still the thrashing, but Sean wouldn't have it. He wrenched and pulled and grunted like a wild thing. He deserved the pain, the wretchedness. But Charles was strong, Even years out of the chair, his arms were still so honed, and he pulled Sean's head to his chest, held him there, hands gently scratching through his hair and around his scalp, shushing noises falling from his lips.

It was hard to breath. Wet gulps wheezed out of his chest from the mental and emotional exhaustion, never mind the physical that came with never falling asleep until almost 3 a.m. and awaking at 6, just to do it all over again. His comrades never let him sleep.

“Oh, Sean.” Charles buried his face into Sean's hair sadly, arms tightening around Sean's shoulders.

It was easier, now, to admit it. Now that Charles already knew.

“It wasn't war. It was a scared little boy, made a sergeant when he could barely understand who he was supposed to salute, let alone capable of pointing a gun at someone.”

He took a deep breath, then nestled further into Charles' chest, hands gripping tight like he'd lose the safety this man always exuded, even now, when he himself was half broken. It still made it possible for Sean to finally admit his sins.

“It was my third, maybe fourth, hell, maybe tenth mission. They all blurred together, joined by the stink of my own fear and assurance that I shouldn't be there.”

Charles wrapped his arms tighter.

“I was still back of the line, hadn't had my first kill. Hell, my squadron hadn't done more than supply runs and the occasional logistics, though we were essentially active personnel.”

Sean sniffed. His head was stuffy.

“They came out of nowhere, the Cong, like ghosts. They just melted out of the jungle. I don't-- I can't remember all of what happened, but I do remember this. I remember being scared shitless as the enemy popped out in front of me. I remember not remembering how to handle a gun. I remember screaming as loud as I could.”

Charles petted Sean's hair and rocked him gently in time to Sean's own body's tics. When had he started swaying?

“The next thing I remember is the sudden silence. Nothing made a sound. The guy who'd tried to kill me was just in front of me, impaled on a tree branch, his face nothing but bone and gristle. He looked like he'd gone through a meat grinder. When I looked for survivors, I couldn't find any. They were all dead. The Viet Cong. My squad, the boys I'd spent four months running the routes with. And I'd killed them. I didn't even know I was that powerful. I took out people behind me. Well, I'd noticed the pattern. Circular. Must have spiraled out.”

He was so empty. Drained. He hadn't wanted to become that, but he had because the government had drafted him. Made him fight their war. Just like the CIA made them fight theirs. But this time, it was Sean who was doing the terrorizing.

Dazedly, he realized, “I think I killed all the birds. I love birds. They're my people.” The pain was nearly too much, he wondered if Charles would take it away for him, please.

Charles gently pushed Sean up to meet his eyes. The tears made them bluer than Sean had ever seen them. His words were hushed, private, though no one else was there.

“I can't, Sean.”

A fierce, unexpected anger swept through Sean.

“You have the power! What good is your telepathy if it can't be used for that?!”

The sharp words echoed throughout the room, startling them both. Sean blinked and ducked his head, anger burnt out like it was nothing, leaving only shame and regret behind.

Charles hummed, pet Sean's head in forgiveness. Sean wilted just a little more.

“More accurately, Sean, I won't. I can only erase the mind's memory, not the heart's. Without the other information to add understanding to what your heart is feeling, you'd live a rather confusing, incomplete life.”

Charles let that sink in for a moment. The anger, gone now, wasn't for Charles to bear. But Sean still wanted the memories gone. Just – gone.

“Pain shapes us, Sean. It makes us what we are more than anything else in this world. It grips us, holds us hostage for when the most crucial moments arrive. It's the decisions we make while mired in that pain that make the difference; we can either come out the other side so much stronger than we were or we can allow it to corrupt us. But it is what makes us.”

Charles' words hung heavy over the room, power like nothing Sean had ever known the backbone of each syllable. He shivered as they washed over him, soaked in. Deep down, underneath all the recrimination, all the loneliness, he knew Charles was right. But knowing and accepting are entirely different things. He took those words, he folded them up and pocketed them away inside of himself. He'll know for a while. And then he'll accept. He had to. There was no other choice.

He inclined his head, slightly. Charles didn't seem to notice. The man's hands balled up, knuckles white. They shook.

“You're nothing like Erik, Sean. Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!”

Surprised at the vehemence, Sean glanced back up, eyes wide and questioning. Last he'd known, Charles was resigned, but not angered. This was… new.

“Erik, Raven to an extent, they let it blacken their hearts. They're sick with it. To them, their pain is the burden for all humans to bear. Their pain turned them into the terrorists, the would-be assassins they are today. Yours was the act of a scared young man shoved into a place he shouldn't have been. You didn't choose it. You didn't orchestrate it. You don't revel in the fear it could induce. Never think you're like Erik.”

By the end, Charles was breathing hard, his face flushed and shiny with sweat. His eyes, intense on Sean's face, were fever bright and Sean was pretty sure he was going to have bruises from Charles' fanatic grip on his arms.

Blinking slowly, speaking just as slowly, Sean broke the moment. “I get it, Charles. All right? I'm not Erik. I get it.” It was like trying to approach a cornered animal. But clearly Sean had hit a nerve, something that had been festering all these years; something that Hank had left out of the telling. He was about to ask, both out of concern for Charles and to divert attention from his own discomfort with the topic, when Charles spoke again.

“Do you think I'm like Erik?”

“No!”

Charles huffed, but the sound was anything but amused.

“You know I was in Korea.”

It didn't require acknowledgment, but Sean nodded anyway. Charles bit his and busied himself with straightening the tea things. It was like a catalyst. Sean got up and made his way to the kettle, filled it, put it on the hob. When he turned back, Charles was sitting at the bay window, staring blankly out into the dark. Thinking back on those last words, he revised; staring out into the past.

The quiet marched on, filled only with the boiling of the water. Sean wondered if Charles would continue, or if he'd lost himself to bygone days. He did that, in the beginning, before the school. It hurt now just as it had then.

He cleared his throat discreetly, not wanting to jar Charles if it was a particularly sour memory. “Raven told us you'd served as a supply clerk, but even then, I thought that couldn't be it, an intelligent man like you.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Raven had been young when I went away. She'd been scared. She thought I might die and leave her alone with– leave her alone. I told her what she wanted to hear, what would make her feel safe in this house, with those–. After, I never told her. I couldn't. It would have darkened her and I needed her to be bright.”

The whistle cut through the heavy atmosphere, steam screaming to get out, and startling Sean and Charles violently. It took all Sean had in him not to screech and shatter one more person, this one infinitely more precious. Charles just blinked slowly, gaze sliding out of the past and slowly back into the present.

Sean forced himself to breathe evenly as he put the tea on to steep. In, out, in, out. His jumpiness was always harder to hide at night, when things went unseen, unheard, until they struck. He watched as the tea leaves slowly swirled into the water, staining it a dark green. And like an automaton, he poured – new cups; the others forgotten on the table and too far to go when he'd remembered. When each man held a cup in their trembling hands, Sean leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. Slurps filled the space, softly, before Charles finally spoke again.

“The difference between you and I is that I was trained. I'd had years under my belt, not months. I was technically a medic, but I'd had my fair share of kill shots.”

Sean swallowed. His ears, strangely, were ringing. He was sure he could hear the rush of his blood as it sped its way through his body. He'd imagined more, but not this. He'd never imagined Charles had killed. As a vet himself, he should have expected, but Sean was coming to the conclusion that he'd maybe made a saint out of a man just doing the best he knew how.

“One night, it just got to be too much. I don't know what broke my control, my shields – a wild animal, the child's cry I'd heard from the nearby village, a stray thought. I'd tried to stay out of their thoughts. I didn't need their horror to compound my own. It could have been a thought. I had been sleeping, and then I wasn't. It's all jumbled, really.” He laughed. “That must be the modus operandi for situations such as this, yes?” Sean smirked bleakly and tilted his head.

“There was just noise. It wasn't a noise I had ever heard before, until it was. Mental screams of anguish. They'd all combined into one long wail. Imagine a sky full of cackling witches and shrieking ghosts and goblins, and insane the lot of them, and you might come close to what I'd heard when I killed them all.”

Sean winced in sympathy. And a picture began to form. He felt like he was truly seeing Charles now, though as a younger man he'd never really thought anything was missing. A feeling like awe seeped into him. Who else knew this side to Charles?

Charles chuckled and said wetly, “No one. And I'd like to keep it that way.”

“Lips. Sealed, my man.”

Charles nodded gratefully.

“It didn't end there. I had to alter a lot of memories that day and the day after, to convince people that it was not strange I was the only survivor, that it was not strange how they died. It was horrible. I suppose a better man would have turned themselves in."

Sean would have protested, but this was a very old wound. Charles either got over it or learned to ignore it. It certainly hadn't destroyed him. He left it alone.

They finished their tea companionably. Everything that needed to be said had been said and Sean knew it was now up to him to sink or float. Charles wouldn't force him, not any more. He'd learned that men who didn't want to save themselves couldn't be saved and no amount of pushing, of forcing them afloat, would change that. It only ended in tears. Sean sat there, swishing the tea slowly through his mouth and turning the entire night over in his head, examining all the bits and pieces.

It was past three in the morning and Sean's body was finally winding down, his mind settling into its well used grooves, where the nightmares were just too tired to tread, until they a lit with renewed vigor with the dawn. He sighed, deeply, and stood to place his cup into the dishwasher, taking the rest of the tea stuff and Charles' half empty cup.

He said his good nights and made his way to the door, but stopped shortly before exiting, back facing Charles. He had one last question before he left Charles the room. He stared at the wall opposite before turning slightly back, Charles' face just within his peripheral. “How do I live with it?” _How did you?_

A ghost flitted across Charles' face, there and gone again, leaving this somber Charles behind, not as much a stark contrast as Sean could have wished it to be. “You just… live. I know that's a bit ambiguous, but you find something worth grabbing on to and you live. You let it carry you until you can carry yourself. It's not a swift process, it's not particularly pleasant, and the cries of dead men will always be with you, but it's all we can do. Or we can drown. I did that, Sean, for years. After Cuba and the failing of the school. After your loss. You don't want to walk the road I had traversed for so long. I don't want you to.”

It was sickening, the understanding that dawned. “Raven was your anchor.”

A fond smile stole enough time on Charles' face that something eased inside Sean. It could be done, even after everything. It could.

“She was. She didn't know it, though. Don't blame her for that. It wasn't her duty to hold me up, it wasn't her obligation merely because I gave her a home. She wasn't required to stay for everything I'd given her. That would be too much miserliness for me to handle.”

“But you still blame her.” It was fact. Sean saw it in the way that spooked war vets saw everything, hyper-vigilant, hyper-aware.

The smile dropped like bricks from Charles face. “Not for that. Never for Cuba. For the things that came after? The silence? The violence? The hatred of me? The way she left once again? Yes. For that I do.”

Sean nodded, then looked away. Tears prickled in his eyes, not yet ready to give up sway to his placid mask. He nodded again, started toward the kitchen staircase, stopped. Without turning this time, he said, “Will you be my anchor?”

The answer was immediate. “Oh, my dear. You don't even have to ask.”

* * *

The building wasn't empty. There were night guards, however inept they might turn out to be, and a few janitors. There was a couple on the fourth floor having what looked like a very passionate love affair, or just sex. Mystique wasn't bothered by any of it.

She stepped lightly out of her car and into the friendly embrace of the dark alley, her coat tucked tightly against her. She breathed out, watching idly as her breath crystallized in the cold air and then dissipated. There and gone. Like so many things. Guilt, as it happens, is not one of those things. Neither was regret or hurt disbelief. Huffing in annoyance, she stamped her feet, as much to jar herself as to warm them.

Shaking the strange mood that had settled over her proved to be harder than she'd like, so she pushed it to the back of her mind, settling it carelessly behind the mission. She stepped out of the alley and onto the ill-lit street just in time for a strong gust of freezing wind to chill her to the bone. She pulled the coat tighter around herself. If only privately, she'd admit that going naked wasn't exactly practical for everyday purposes, even if shifting was made more comfortable without layers of fabric folding into her skin. It would have been nice if her scales were good for something more than aesthetics and the seams that held her body together, like warmth.

It took no time at all to saunter across the snow speckled road, her figure shortening, widening, stretching out of her natural shape and into that of Thomas Morris, CEO of Genetico Tech. The shift warmed her momentarily, but her pace shortened as a result, the extra time letting the cold seep into her skin-clothes and settle into her bones like it belonged there. She forced herself not to shiver. She was fully covered in her human suit and fast approaching the doors and Morris wasn't one to show weakness. She strode in confidently.

The two guards at the lobby desk stood quickly, surprise and a glint of fear on their faces. Mystique suppressed her smirk. She could smell the sex in the air. Either they had a hooker under that counter or they were having a circle jerk over the sex happening a few floors higher, no doubt captured on one of the cameras spaced every three feet throughout the building. She didn't particularly care and as long as she didn't acknowledge that she knew, they'd remain distracted once she left. It irked to admit that she'd need the time. Her leg hadn't fully healed and she still had a limp. As further reminder that she was compromised, her calf twinged. She locked her knee to prevent the urge to buckle and grit her teeth, cursing Erik once more.

“Back to your business, boys.” Her southern drawl was perfect, something she was extremely proud of. Accents had always been something she had to work on. Tone came with the shift, but accents were learned, not ingrained, and she had never been very good at them.

The guards nodded, relief washing over their faces so obviously she was embarrassed for them. Where did they get these guys? She nodded once and then proceeded down the hall to the elevator banks. Once around the corner she allowed a wince through her mask, and grunted. The fire spread from her calf to her thigh and it occurred to her that she might have gone to a better hospital. There was still shrapnel in there, she was sure of it.

Dismissing those worries as irrelevant at the moment, Mystique banged the Call button and waited impatiently. She was exhausted and wanted this over with. She needed sleep, food, and a bath. Mostly, she needed oblivion for just a little while. Seeing Hank, Charles, and Erik, even Alex for that brief moment, had slammed home how lonely her existence was. It was unavoidable, but that didn't mean Mystique had to like it. She had issues with three of those four men anyway. As the grinding of the elevator arrived on her floor, she resolutely pushed the image of Charles as she'd never seen him – exhausted, ragged, unbathed _(standing!)_ – out of her mind, to languish in the recesses of her brain along with the shrapnel and her quixotic mood. Those things can wait or, preferably, disappear.

The smooth glide of the half doors jolted her back to the present, and she growled. Her mental acuity was suffering from plagues of doubt and nostalgia and it had to stop. Her world was no place for personal cares, and she resolutely refused to think about what a lonely existence that made it. She chose this life, when she left Cuba, when she chose not to rescue Erik from prison. It was hers and hers alone. And she was doing good, helping others of her kind. That's all she could ask for these days.

The floors flashed by without a care to Mystique's inner turmoil and finally dinged, swifter than she'd thought, at level 23. She swept out the doors, purpose in her step and thoughts decisively looking toward the mission at hand. Her eyes burned under the assault of the relentlessly white, white walls and floor and ceiling. Her feet, bare under the false shoes, felt like they were walking on shards of ice, cold and jagged all at once. The only color in the entire room was the black panel at the end of the stretch of corridor.

Smiling in satisfaction, Mystique noted it was the exact model she'd been studying. It wasn't certain they'd still have it since Trask's office, but it seemed the humans were still the stupider of the species. She sung Aretha Franklin's _R-E-S-P-E-C-T_ under her breath as she slotted her palm into the unit.

There was an electric hum as the scanner ran down her hand, green light copying down her stolen prints, then running back up. Then a new whirring began, startling Mystique and sending a spike of worry through her. It was only supposed to go once. She glanced at the door; firmly closed. The whirring continued as whatever else the panel had in store queued up, giving Mystique the time to decide whether she'd be better off removing her hand. She wasn't fond of sticking her arm into dark holes, and this felt like one.

Before she could decide on a plan, five pinpricks on her fingertips and a sixth, massive pinch in the center of her palm made her wince and jerk back. Her eyes scanned the door, but it failed to open. The panel, however, started clanging, and flashing bright red on the readout was, INTRUDER. Next to it was Morris' DNA sequence compared to her own.

“Shit!”

She turned to run, but an unexpected dizzy spell sent her tumbling into the wall. Her hand, the one she'd used on the scanner, tingled. It felt slightly numb. Mystique shook it briskly, then again, as she hoisted herself to her feet and sped toward the closing lift doors.

“Fuck!”

She put on a burst of speed and then sent herself into a baseball slide, her bare skin rubbing uncomfortably along the linoleum floor. She'd have a burn there after this. She skidded into the small room just as the doors closed, and hit the opposite wall with a jarring thud.

As she lay there, breath ripping from her lungs, eyes glued to the ceiling, she realized something. She was getting sloppy. It had started in Paris, when she'd allowed herself to get tazered, then again, when she'd trapped herself inside the president's bunker with no way out. She hadn't thought out all the variables. She should have adjusted when she'd realized Erik was out, after he'd tried to kill her. She'd like to blame her carelessness on that, and on Charles' unexpected punch into her life. But she was an adult. She'd stopped blaming others for her failings a long time ago.

The elevator ground to a halt and Mystique gingerly rolled to her feet, wincing as her leg wound pulled taut. She leaned against the wall, palms flat against the soothing coolness of the metal, fingernails scraping lightly as she curled them inward. She breathed deeply, then out, as the doors slid open, and then straightened.

She stiffened her will and stepped out, stood straight and walked at a quick pace toward the exit. She glanced at the security desk and gave them a nod, turning back to the front without waiting for acknowledgment. It was a mistake.

She'd barely taken another step when she heard a gun cocking and one of the guard's say, tone, cold, “Freeze.”

Mystique stopped in her tracks as confusion seeped in, then turned slowly.

“I said 'freeze!'”

It was then that Mystique caught her reflection in the window, made all the more stark by the heavy snowfall outside. Her cerulean face just popped out at her. If she wasn't in the process of being detained, she'd perhaps consider wearing clothes again; white, like Emma's. The contrast between her skin and a nice fur coat (of which she had many in Westchester) would be much more striking than her naked skin. As it was, she dismissed that line of thought and smiled fiercely when she fully came face to face with the guards.

The men had obviously never faced a mutant. They were shaking, which made it all the more ludicrous that they'd been given guns.

“Stay where you and don't move! Carl, call Ops.”

Raven snickered, though a shot of anxiety lingered behind her mind. “I can either stay where I am or not move, but I can't do both.”

Their brows furrowed, and Carl mouthed what she'd said, their small brains painfully trying to process the statement. They paused. It was the opportunity Mystique had been waiting for. She pounced on Redundant Man and laid him down with a quick punch to the solar plexus. He fell like a stone, gun following suit. Mystique caught the piece, heavy and ostentatious and obviously compensating for something, and brought it to bear on Carl. She pulled the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder. He fell with a shout and Mystique took off.

She'd have killed him if she had the time, and if he really knew what was going on behind those doors. She'd impersonated a security guard or three, had to do their work for hours, if not days, and knew those idiots were just there because they thought it was an easy job that paid well. Nothing more, nothing less. Charles would be proud, she was sure, but then, she'd stopped looking for his approval so long ago.

Batting the melancholia that accompanied that thought away, Mystique ran. She slipped past her car, into the alley, and turned a corner. There was nothing of value in that thing and they'd have clocked the description by now. She glanced behind her, noting the lack of chase, and shifted into the blonde she was when she was young and naive. Or rather, tried. Her scales rippled once, again, but then settled into their normal configuration.

Mystique's heart skipped and she came to a stop, staring in disbelief at her skin, still blue as the day she was born. Her ears filled with white noise and her body trembled. She couldn't feel the cold. Snow blurred her vision as it clumped onto her eyelashes, but she just stood there, rippling her skin again and again. Nothing but the minutest shiver of scales happened before they settled back down in their original form.

Her ears perked up at the soft crunch of boots on crusty snow and her finely honed survival instinct kicked in, pushing the panic to the back of her mind. She threw herself to the ground, her shoulder hitting the cold concrete at an angle that Mystique knew would dislocate it, and ripping the gun from her grasp. She hissed as she rolled herself away, just barely missing the hail of bullets that pelted the side of the building, that kicked up snow-covered, concrete shrapnel.

Her roll took her off the sidewalk, into the street, with enough of a deep curb to allow her to pop onto her feet. She took off running, dodging into every dark well of shadow she could reach. The boots thundered after her, rank and file. Professionals. Perhaps government, perhaps paramilitary. Mystique didn't bother to find out. Save herself first, then investigate.

Her breath burned out of her body as she pushed it to the limit. Her injuries were a constant ache, her calf on fire and her shoulder loose. She hadn't felt this wrecked since her training first started, nearly immediately after Cuba, Azazel pulling her aside and lunging at her before she could even register that she'd left her injured brother behind.

It made her feel small, this feeling. It made her feel weak and vulnerable, like the girl she was, a shadow once more. And she couldn't be that, couldn't be vulnerable. She had no one to watch over her while she was. As more bullets ricocheted off the corner of a brownstone she careened around, her leg hitched. She stumbled, crashed to the ground, scraping a long gash along her shin.

A cry ripped from her throat, but she threw herself back up, pitched forward nearly too far to catch her feet under her, and continued on. She slipped and skidded, arms windmilling, until she caught her balance and pelted down the street as best as her injuries allowed. Her limp, and now the deep wound on her other shin, slowed her down significantly and the boots gained even more ground. Her breath hitched and tears crystallized on her cheeks, from pain, from fear; from loneliness. Never more had that fact, that she had no one, been driven home so harshly, so completely undeniably.

As reluctant despair settled over her, Mystique spotted an ajar manhole cover. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. Sewage and rats were better than death. She lunged for the cover and wrenched it off the opening. She dropped down and glanced up, just in time to see the soldiers round the corner, faces covered in black ski masks. They hadn't spotted her as far as she could tell, but she wasn't going to examine them any more to test that theory or to find out who they might be. Typical mutant hating militia, it seemed like, hired out to Genetico Tech. She pulled the cover swiftly onto the hole, careful to scrape it along the road as little as possible. She swung to the other side of the ladder and hung there, waiting. There was no sound but for her harsh breathing, the trickle of water droplets into the sludge below, and the rattling of rodents through the refuse.

Calming herself when she was already broken open was a skill she had yet to master, a problem that had originated the day she'd found out Charles had been paralyzed. She did her best, though. She breathed deeply and forced herself not to cringe when her lungs filled with the noxious odor of human waste, dead rodents, and rotted food.

She could hear the boots as they stomped over, and then passed, the manhole cover, fading slowly into the distance. And it was like she was a discarded marionette, strings carelessly cut. She sagged gracelessly against the ladder, her arms holding her body above the murky water, her head rested against the frigid, rough iron of the ladder.

She needed rest. Maybe in the morning, this nightmare of being less than what she was would be over. Her eyes closed.

* * *

Three weeks had passed and Charles was glad to see Sean settling into the mansion (into godfatherhood, Sean would say, much to Hank's displeasure) without much trouble. He still jumped at pitched noises, though those were slightly fewer now, once Charles made Hank aware of the situation. Some could not be helped, of course, accidents and certain experiments and the like, but Sean was always encouraged to be absent from the lower levels when Hank had a noisy project going.

His mind was more settled now, knowing that Charles had lost control once, too. Guilt tinged his relief, when Sean allowed himself to think about it, but Charles kept his own council. Some things needed to be worked out on their own. If Sean insisted on feeling a little guilty for Charles once being in the same position, then Charles wasn't going to pry. He had to pick his battles and he'd much rather get Sean to scream again. He knew how much the young man missed flying.

It was an overcast day when Charles felt like he had found his chance. He removed Cerebro's helmet from his head and set it lightly onto its stand, relief washing over him. Of the names Sean had supplied him, none had been found, and a fear had set into the mansion. The options weren't great, though some were better than others. Death was the most probable, though they could have been captured by Frost, their minds hidden from him, or by the government, their minds hidden from him in a different manner. Neither boded well, if true. Frost hadn't been capable of shielding that many minds over a decade ago and, after gaining access to her mind in Russia, Charles had felt her at her peak. One simply did not gain such power after already plateauing. However, if they were hidden by the government… Charles shivered. One helmet was one helmet more than enough.

He shook off those melancholic thoughts and allowed a smile to spread over his face. He'd found one. Her thoughts were jumbled, like she couldn't quite remember herself (and Charles couldn't stop himself from scowling in Frost's general, unknown direction, but thankful she'd left Sean's mind alone), and she was lonely and scared. Oddly, it was a familiar feeling for her, an old friend she'd never quite shed, so integral that she didn't really acknowledge it. And she seemed plucky. The mansion needed some plucky.

Charles hummed a tune under his breath as he ascended to the first floor, idly rubbing the throbbing in his legs. He could do with a cuppa soon and the girls needed to be put down for naps. He cast his mind out and found the girls already sleeping with their favorite teddy. Hank looked both delighted and disgruntled, no doubt wanting to get on with his many experiments. Smiling, Charles prodded Hank's mind with amusement, then turned his attention to rooting out Sean.

He was staring at the ground from a good 30 stories up, hands gripping the metal railing with dear life. The satellite. Charles skimmed Sean's mind, hoping maybe-- but no. Sighing, Charles wheeled himself out of the manor and toward the towering eyesore. By the time he'd made it, Sean – having seen him coming from a mile away, almost literally – met him at the base.

“You know, if you had a motorized chair...”

“Yes, yes. You know I use one with the girls, but I'd much rather have less bulk when doing other things. Enjoy yourself?”

Sean smirked lightly and cocked his brow. “Yeah, I totally tend to enjoy reminiscing about the time a psychopath threw me off what equates to a vertical football field.”

The memory was a fond one, one Charles had never felt guilt laughing over. He smiled brightly and said, “Well, you _were_ wearing a lot of metal, don't forget.”

Sean nodded. “That Erik would have caught me, I suppose.” He gestured back at the dish. “Masochistic?”

That brought a hoarse laugh out of Charles and he shook his head, removing his hands from the wheels as Sean took the handles and turned them toward the house. “I was going to have that monstrosity removed, but it turns out that even though it's on my property, the government has full control of it. I need to find the right person to bribe first.”

“You're so naughty, Charles.”

“Don't ever attempt a British accent again.”

“Noted.” They shared a laugh before Sean said, concerned, “I never knew that. Can they-?”

“No, absolutely not. Even if it was a CIA or FBI asset, Hank designed a scrambler that only interferes with that thing. As it is, it's NASA owned. I somehow don't think NASA finds the inhabitants of this mansion all that other wordly and worthy of investigation.”

Sean snorted, then glanced back at the dish, eyes darting over the entire structure. He shrugged and turned back. “I take it you traversed this terrain for a reason and not just for your health?”

Charles sent a look of censure Sean's way and noted, “You've been spending too much time around Hank. Kindly don't let him turn you into a worrywart. I was, in fact, hoping the effects would go the other way.”

Sean chuckled and shrugged. “I'll always worry about you. Hell, I worried about you when you were here and I was deep in a Vietnam jungle, getting shot at every three seconds.”

“Flattering, I assure you.”

“Ha!” Sean swatted Charles' head, the chair veering off course a little as he did so. Charles huffed and straightened his hair. “You need to at least trim that disaster, Charles, honestly.” Charles sniffed and refused to comment on the subject.

“I have found one of the people on that list you gave me.”

Sean took a sharp breath in and his mind jumped, excitement building. Charles smiled. The entire mansion was curious about Miss Frost's doings.

“So not all of them are dead or just-- gone.”

“Indeed. It's the one who calls herself Tempest, though that name seems to suit her ill within the confines of her own thoughts. It might be an alias.”

“Might be? You're not certain?”

Charles hummed. “It seems Frost has tampered with the poor woman's mind. She seems to remember being called such, and yet it… let's say it grinds wrong inside of her mind.”

Sean was contemplative for a moment, leaving nothing but the birdsong and the crunch of Charles' chair on the finely ground gravel that covered the driveway from gate to circular in front of the house. He supposed he should have had it paved, but it would have ruined the aesthetic. Charles was many things, and an aesthete snob was, unfortunately, one of them.

“Is she dangerous?”

Charles couldn't help but to laugh at that. “Aren't we all?”

A spike of amused disbelief sidled into Charles' mind. “Have you forgotten about Yena Ablovsky?”

Charles chuckled. He had. Not because she was forgettable, but because they'd known her so little before she'd left. And then the things that came after. “Yes, well, I suppose being able to grow your hair different colors wouldn't be all that useful in life, unless one wanted to become a fashion maven of some description. In any case, I couldn't really get a firm grasp on her powers. She really is quite scrambled.”

Sean nodded. “Hank and I'll leave tonight, after dinner.”

“It really is most likely a one person job, Sean.”

“And if she's dangerous, I'm going to need Hank's strength and reflexes.”

Charles sighed and refrained from noting that Sean could just scream. He'd gotten quite controlled by the time his draft came about. Thwarted, but not yet dissuaded in the long run, Charles let the matter drop.

“Very well.”

* * *

Charles sat with his girls in the parlor, reading a greatly watered down version of the Brother's Grimm fairy tales to them as they dozed lazily in his lap. The fireplace crackled soothingly, sparking warmth throughout his body and sleepiness throughout his brain. He supposed the words were flowing over inattentive ears and so let the book flop onto his chest and just gazed into the flickering flames, relishing in the contentment he thought he'd lost forever.

He breathed deeply as his bones settled, not even tempted to check on Hank's and Sean's progress. They were big boys. They could handle it. And he somehow suspected that Tempest wouldn't do them any harm.

As he gathered his girls to him and shifted further into the divan, it occurred to him that this is how the school had started – with one stray mutant rescued from a horrible home. But that was ridiculous. From what he could tell, which was little and that still concerned him, the woman would only be four or five years younger than Charles himself. Hardly a suitable candidate for a school.

Tension he hadn't known he had eased out of Charles and he sunk even deeper into the luxurious cushion beneath him. The school was a different him, a different time, but even he hadn't realized how much he would dread starting up the academy again. His heart eased at that realization. He was doing the right thing, if not for the mutants of the world, then for himself and if that was selfish, well, Charles deserved to be. But it did remind him that he had a few names to check on sometime soon.

TJ grunted as she shuffled around, her tail lashing out to curl possessively around Charles' wrist. Once assured that he wasn't going anywhere, she settled into his side, thumb firmly stuck in her mouth. Luna, on the other hand, thrashed once, kicking him in the spleen in an attempt to get away, and Charles loosened his hold, smiling; his homebody and adventurer.

The clock in the hall ticked the time away. Charles drifted. He knew, somewhere in the haze, that he should get up, put the girls to bed, and get into his own that was equipped with the things a paralyzed man would need to keep bedsores at bay, but he was too comfortable. He breathed deeply again, the heat from the dying fire filling his lungs, setting him even drowsier. He'd move in a second.

He dreamed. He was in a forest, a very realistic forest, with all the sights and smells that entailed. A small animal of some kind darted through the underbrush, startling a nesting sparrow to flight. Charles heard the caw as if the bird was right next to him. He breathed deeply smelled the loam as if he was standing right on top of it. The breeze brushed back his hair and cooled his heated skin, drying the sweat that he had appeared there. Obviously, his dream had taken him somewhere else, somewhere tropical. Nice, if a bit misguided of hi subconscious. Charles had always loved the winter, waning as the end of February loomed.

He looked around, cataloging the trees (and what a magnificent canopy they made), the shape of their leaves, the sounds of the night animals. It would seem he was in Brazil, the Amazon. Interesting. He'd only ever been the once, with Raven, both decked out in the safari clothes always seen in the safari magazines. Then Raven almost got eaten by a boa and they'd deemed the venture over and done with. The lights and colors and music of Rio had been far more their speed.

Curious that his mind would bring him here. He'd been miserable slashing his way through the brush and vines. It had been hot and muggy, their hair plastered to their heads and a heavy, wet heat invading their lungs. It had reminded him of Korea, for all that it was mountainous country. He wondered if it was punishment for his simmering anger at Raven, though as far as punishments went, it was extremely bearable. Charles shook his head. Unhelpful.

He was lucid, so he should be able to control what happened here or wake up. As he had no desire to stay in frighteningly realistic dream, in a place that it hurt desperately to think of (like all Raven memories), he chose pinching himself rather viciously on the arm. The pain was a phantom. He knew it should be there, and his skin twitched, but he didn't wake up. He tried it again. And again. He tried it a dozen more times and if this body was real, he'd be blooming with bruises by tomorrow.

Charles sighed. His mind wanted him to see something, it seemed. Well. He chose a direction at random and started to walk. Might as well humor himself.

It wasn't long until he encountered a glow in the middle of nowhere that Charles could see. A fire. He couldn't remember what fires meant in dream interpretation, but he did remember he'd never cared for such flimflam. He marched faster, eager to get this 'message' over with so that he could go back to dreaming about his misery. Anything was better than self-retrospection.

He struggled through the banana leaves and stumbled out the other side. When he straightened, his eyes settled on the one person Charles never wanted to see again. Erik Lehnsherr.

Erik's eyes widened. Confusion set into his face. His can of beans tumbled from his hands to splatter the legs of his jeans. “Charles?”

* * *

Erik blinked rapidly, heart pounding, as he stared at Charles, at Charles standing again. A swift anger swept through him at that. He'd thought Charles had solved that personal issue by DC. He'd been in his wheelchair, after all, and a pang stabbed him. It was a demon that haunted Erik's every step these days; demons with Charles' face, ragged and pale, hair lank and oily, that sat in wheelchairs with useless legs. He'd known about Charles' paralysis, but he'd never seen it for himself. As angry as he'd been at Charles for ridding himself of his powers to have something so pedestrian as his ability to walk back, he'd been just as winded at the sight of Charles in that chair. Even so, he opened his mouth to yell at the man. Ignoring the problem would never fix it, would never allow him to live again. And even after everything, Erik did want Charles to live and live well. Before he could get any words out, Charles flickered, seemed to become translucent, and then vanished.

Erik's heart stopped for a beat. “Charles!”

He stood from his pallet and twisted in a circle, eyes desperately seeking out each and every dark corner and cranny.

“Charles!”

His voice ripped through the still night air. A tree rodent chittered and scampered away. Bigger animals stirred outside the protective ring of the fire. But from Charles, there was no movement, no answering call. Erik grabbed his torch and switched it on. He grabbed his machete and strode forward, to where Charles had been, and then past, into the territory beyond.

His heart beat frantically. His ears rushed with the sound of his blood. His face was hot. He feared he'd pass out from the anxiety, eaten by some large, carnivorous creature before he could come to. He feared even more a worse happening to Charles.

“Charles!”

His voice was high. It cracked on the second syllable. He couldn't breathe. There was a military base a few miles to the east. His contact had spoken of ESP experiments being conducted, but he'd dismissed those claims. They hadn't warranted interest. What Erik had come for, who he'd come for, had run another base and had quite a few more scattered throughout the world. He'd just come to ask the man about the rest before exacting retribution for the mangled bodies of the mutants that he'd discovered in the one that had sparked his hunt.

But now. Now, Erik was reconsidering the importance of those claims. ESP wasn't looked upon with any kind of seriousness and that prevailing attitude had swayed Erik's judgment as well. He'd forgotten that ESP was essentially telepathy. What better way to develop it than from a telepath?

Erik started to hyperventilate as his mind took that thought and ran it to its gory conclusion. He grasped for the fury that had always centered him before, before Charles, before Cuba, tried to use it to bring about a sense of calm. But that technique had failed to work the moment Charles taught him to balance his rage with serenity, the moment he found a new mission in life after Schmidt's death.

So he reached for the most obvious explanation to explain away the incident. After all, he'd seen Emma do it once. If she could, Charles most definitely could. He stopped running and closed his eyes, allowed the facts of the situation to sink in. Charles had been there, but then he hadn't. He'd been easy to see through, which meant he couldn't have been physically here. Erik's helmet wasn't with him, left in the rubble of the White House, as a peace offering. _(As a hope)._ Charles could have used Cerebro, no doubt rebuilt somewhere in the mansion over the years, to project a visual of himself to Erik's unprotected mind. That had to be it. Charles was trying to contact him, speak to him. Emma had done so as a means to stay out of Erik's head when he demanded it, communicating through his mind but not actually in it. Erik nodded decisively, hopefully. That had to be it.

But then why hadn't Charles said anything? Why had the projection looked as startled to see Erik as he'd been to see it? Hysteria started to set in again. The only conclusion was that Charles hadn't known he was here. He must have been become lucid enough to reach out for the nearest mind not with the complex, latching onto the first one he found. His panic turned into terror, embedding itself into the marrow of his bones. If Charles had been captured after Erik's antics in DC, he'd never forgive himself. Charles' powers were never as overt as most mutant's, but it was obvious he'd done something to Erik. It could be enough for suspicion.

It was a thought that haunted him constantly. Erik had tried to wrestle it into submission, this concern for Charles, but it was easier said than done when the man had stuck himself into Erik's heart like a burr. They'd parted ways a lifetime ago. They were different men with different paths. And those paths would clash one day, as they did over a month ago. He couldn't fight a man he worried constantly about. It was funny how much that reasoning stopped meaning anything when Charles was in danger.

Erik turned in the direction he knew the base was and started running blindly through the jungle. To hell with waiting for the commander. They had Charles and nothing was going to stop Erik from being there for him. Not this time.

* * *

When Charles came to, he was extremely aware that he'd allowed himself to fall asleep on the couch, weighed down by TJ and Luna. The pain that wracked every inch of his body was testament to that fact. He groaned and swiveled his hips slightly, trying to alleviate the bedsore he could feel already digging its way up from beneath his skin. The pain ricocheted up his back, white hot spikes of vengeance aiming with military precision to debilitate him as quickly as possible.

Charles hissed and seized. He pushed his head back and breathed through his clenched teeth, tried to ignore the tears that were pricking at his eyes. Even after nearly a month and a half had passed with him in his chair again, he kept forgetting he couldn't do this, not anymore. As he grunted through the pain, waiting for alleviation that he knew would be long in coming, his mind wandered to similar thoughts.

It was harder to ignore the tears then, when he thought of all the things he could never do with his children, spontaneously falling asleep with them in front of the fire not even the most of them. He'd never have his father-daughter dances at their weddings or even walk them down the aisle – their dresses would get caught in his chair and what bride would want that? He'd not be able to teach them to ride horses, as he'd taught Raven, or take them to the beach and comb for shells.

His face was drenched, in tears or sweat he didn't really want to know, as he spiraled into his depression, physical and emotional pain ganging up on him mercilessly. A drink wouldn't go amiss, if only he could move, but Charles banished the thought quickly enough. He forced himself to breath deeper, to focus on the weight, or lack there of, of his daughters as they quickly tumbled off of him and to the floor, four tiny hands gripping his arm. Their concern washed over him, either pulled in by his own telepathy or projected by TJ, he was too addled to be sure, but it helped to soothe the pains ravaging him, if only emotionally.

He turned his head to look at them, smiling reassurances, but careful to keep his telepathy in check. He wasn't sure he was in control enough not to feed his pain into them. He steeled himself enough to move unclench one hand to settle comfortingly over theirs and squeezed. TJ looked unconvinced, her own telepathy reading the lie that it was. Luna looked just as skeptical, her eyes wide and bright. Charles patted their hands once more and then slumped onto the sofa. Great. He was already the biggest failure of a father ever to see the face of this earth.

“Don't be so dramatic, Charles,” floated into the room, startling Charles so badly that he winced as renewed pain flashed through his back.

“Hank.”

Loud footsteps pounded across the room as Hank hurried in, his furred face a perfect reflection of the girls' worry. “I apologize, Charles. I assumed you knew we were back, though as much pain as you were projecting, I should have known you'd be too distracted.”

Charles grimaced and glanced at his girls. They were rocks, apparently. His attention swiveled to Hank as the other man settled gently beside Charles, his bulk making it next to impossible not to jar the furniture. But he managed it with the grace his mutation also gave him. A study in dichotomy, his Hank.

“Something for the pain,” Hank murmured, one clawed finger already lightly tapping the air out of a syringe. Charles nodded and held out his arm, watching warily as Hank rolled up his sleeve. His arms were a sight he didn't like to see these days. He dropped his head back. The ceiling was a better view anyway.

“Da hurt!”

Charles' head shot up, his eyes wide, as he remembered the girls. TJ was pointing at his arm and Charles winced. He went to pull down his sleeve – pain killers could be administered later, out of view of his children – when Hank firmly grabbed his hand. Charles whipped his head Hank's direction, harsh glare ready to flay Hank alive.

Hank rolled his eyes and pushed the sleeve further up. “She means this, Charles, not your old… wounds. You're bruised as hell on your bicep.”

That… was a surprise. The glare fell from his face and Charles blinked, then looked down. It was a hard angle to get a look from, but Charles could see the edge of what had to be a rather large bruise, already yellowing at the edges.

Hank huffed under his breath as he quickly inserted the needle and depressed the plunger. Then he pulled it out and set it aside, turned Charles' arm and set to examining the new injury. Charles was about to protest, but the relief hit just then and his muscles relaxed so swiftly that his body melted into the sofa. Hank made some good stuff. He wasn't even that high, though Hank cautioned that it was just as, if not more, addictive than morphine. Somehow, Charles couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

A silly smile spread across his face and his head plopped over to the side on a neck with the tensile strength of a wet noodle. TJ and Luna loomed close, eyes huge in their little faces. They looked like those paintings from the '20s, or was it '30s, of the big eyed people. Charles giggled.

“Hi.”

It was long, drawn out, high pitched. The girls, unaware of the severity of the moment and only understanding that their daddy was no longer in pain, broke out into huge smiles, fangs showing from TJ, and giggled excitedly.

“Da is silly,” Luna screamed.

It was like a call to arms, but before the girls could jump onto Charles, Hank shooed them off to the other side of the room and sat them down with some toys and firm command to stay there. Despite the fact they put their full power behind their pouts, Hank did not budge. He pointed at the blocks, the dolls, the train sets, and growled. Luna huffed and stomped her way to the toys. TJ stuck her tongue out, flicked her tail agitatedly, and followed. Charles tittered. Hank turned back and sighed.

“You shouldn't have fallen asleep here, Charles. You know-”

Charles had some wherewithal left to summon a lazy scowl. “I know. But I 's comfy and the girls...”

Hank sighed again, but nodded. “Yeah, I know. But what's- you know, never mind. Let's wait until your fully here.”

“Tha's good. How'd Chicago?”

Hank lifted a brow and chuckled. “It went… well. There's a surprise waiting for you, by the way, for when the high had gone away. It seems there's no end of those these days.”

“I l'ke sprises. M'girls sprise.”

Hank snorted and shook his head, smile so deep on his face, his rarely seen dimpled peeked out. “Yeah, not quite sure this one is a good one, but we'll see. You go to sleep, Charles. We'll watch the TJ and Luna.”

“M'kay. Love...”

Charles heard, as if from a long distance, “We love you, too” as he faded into sleep.

* * *

“You rang?”

Hank looked up from his reading and nodded once to the right. Sean turned and raised his brows. Charles lay sprawled on the sofa, limbs every which way, and sporting a rather nasty looking bruise on his left bicep.

“I thought--”

“Yeah, well, it's a father's prerogative to be spontaneous with his children, but it doesn't bode well for a nice morning after when it comes to paraplegics.”

“Bummer.” Hank nodded.

Sean continued into the room quietly, though he was aware Charles probably wouldn't awake any time soon. Hank had showed him the shit he made to help with Charles' pain – and how to administer it if he ever had to play nurse. Charles would be zonked for hours yet.

“Shouldn't we move him?”

Hank nodded his head. “Someone has to watch the girls and since I'm the one with the strength, that would be you.”

“Right. Not a hardship.”

Sean settled himself onto the floor and picked up a caboose. There was a soldier taped to the top with a pink tutu painted on and he chuckled. About right. Out of his peripheral, he saw Hank gently lift Charles and head to the door.

“That doesn't seem like a bedsore to me.” He looked up.

Hank glanced at the bruise, anxiety etched into his face. “It's not. It's just a bruise. But thanks for reminding me. I have to check for those and apply some ointments and bandages.”

Sean grunted in acknowledgment, but went back to his original concern. “What do you think it's from?”

“I haven't the slightest. We'll just have to see what Charles says. Maybe it's nothing and he just bumped into something, but Charles seemed surprised to see it and we both know, from long experience, that Charles has become quite good at observing when he's bumped into something. That habit hadn't gone away the entire time he was on the serum.”

Sean nodded again. What else could he do? He waved Hank off and turned back to the girls, asking what game they were playing with the trains and ballet soldiers. The explanation didn't make it any clearer, but Sean decided he'd take any excuse to make fun of the military, even if he greatly respected his comrades. Anything to keep his mind off the mutant in the lower level. Guilt wracked at him. He should have recognized her three years ago, even if she'd looked nothing like herself.

She'd said Frost hadn't gotten to her soon enough. Her eyes, though, said something different. What, neither Hank nor Sean could discern, because her words kept saying the opposite. Frost was a telepath. Charles had said her mind was addled. Two and two and four and all that.

Sean laid on his side, head propped up with his hand while his other hand choo-chooed the caboose. She seemed to know her name wasn't Tempest, even if she couldn't say what her true name was; even if she couldn't even answer to it. It frustrated the hell out of her, he could tell, and it frustrated the hell out of them.

Sympathy welled up inside Sean. Whatever else had happened between them, no one should go through something like what she had. Her hair, at least, had grown back and her body was no longer bloody and mangled. The gash on her face had healed up, leaving a scar across her right eye that she probably thought was ugly, but that Sean just thought made her look bad ass.

A doll hit Sean in the side of the head and he turned his attention quickly to the indignant toddler across from him. Her blue face looked fierce with her fangs poking through her frown.

“Play!”

Sean quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, ma'am.”

* * *

Erik sat in the middle of mangled metal and fractured concrete, documents strewn around him and stained with the blood of his enemies' twisted bodies. They'd died slow and painful deaths. It seems he can sense iron in the blood, now. And Charles, he'd believed, was in here. Alone. But there had been no Charles, or mutants of any kind. And it was hardly a research center for ESP.

It was, however, a research facility for chemical warfare. Against mutants. So far as Erik could discern, the chemical would wear off in a few hours to days to months, but it couldn't kill, not yet, and it couldn't permanently neuter, either. Erik suspected they were aiming for the former and just hadn't gotten there yet. Maybe they even utilized it in some form, to capture more dangerous mutants who would otherwise be hard, if not impossible, to detain. Like a telepath, though they'd gotten to Emma easily enough. _(She wasn't Charles_ was a thought whispered through his head more often than not during their acquaintance).

But Charles wasn't here. There wasn't even mention of him in the records. Erik didn't care. It was about time to go back to Westchester, anyway. Charles needed him, that much was clear, even if he wouldn't consciously acknowledge it. Erik stood swiftly, uncaring of the blood that dripped off the ends of his shirt, down the side of his face. Westchester, Charles, called. He'd been meaning to visit, at the least, anyway. Now he didn't have to with his tail between his legs. Now, he had a purpose. If Erik wasn't good at taking care of the things he loved, he was good at this: having a mission. If that mission meant that he could go home again? All the better.


End file.
